


Stuff Like Love

by lambchop33



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, But Not Safe Sex, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Highly Consensual sex, Home Improvement, I'm too romantic, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Bucky Barnes, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pumbaa the mini-pig, Sick Steve Rogers, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, just pretend there are condoms, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambchop33/pseuds/lambchop33
Summary: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes thematurething to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?





	1. That's What YouTube Is For

**Author's Note:**

> I am very thankful and happy and just have to share. So just about a month ago I was at Chicago's ComicCon, where I finally got my hands on Chris for a picture! He looked great. He smelled great. He felt great. I died and went to heaven, then was reincarnated and came back just so I could write more Stucky fic. :-) So here ya go.

Ch 1 That’s What YouTube Is For

Bucky Barnes crumples his face in concentration. He heard definite words, making a definite sentence, but he still can’t quite comprehend it. He stares, unblinking, at the man across from him at their tiny table. Blond, rumpled hair, blue eyes, shoulders wide enough to bench a tank. Yep, that was his best friend Steve sitting there. 

Setting his cardboard coffee cup down, Bucky asks disbelievingly, “You’re gonna what?”

“Remodel my kitchen. And I want to do it myself,” blue-eyes responds eagerly, making Bucky snort indelicately.

“That’s what I thought you said. And you’ve been saying that every year for the last six years, ever since you bought that house,” Bucky insists, leaning forward to talk over the grunt Steve makes. 

“I _know_ ,” he replies peevishly, “But this time I _mean_ it.”

Shaking his head indulgently, Bucky laughs. “I’ll believe it when I see it. You sure you want to take on a project that big on your own? Why not just pay someone else to do the work?”

Steve’s brow wrinkles and his eyes narrow, as if Bucky just said something distasteful. “That takes all the _fun_ out of it.” He smiles, tipping his metal chair back on two legs. “Besides, it can’t be that hard. People remodel their own houses all the time.”

Bucky laughs again and glances around the small café. The tables are all full since the lunch hour is well under way, but he and Steve frequently meet here anyway despite the crowd. The café is halfway between their two office buildings and the owner makes great paninis, so it’s a frequent haunt. Bringing his eyes back to Steve’s, Bucky purses his lips. 

“Just because you’ve watched every season of Fixer Upper doesn’t mean you’re suddenly as handy as Chip Gaines.”

“No,” Steve tips his chair back down to the floor and stabs a finger into the air. “But I’ve got a secret weapon. Nothing can go wrong.”

Chuckling, Bucky pushes his empty plate away from him and leans forward on his elbows. “Secret weapon, huh?” he says merrily. Steve always was the optimistic one, glass half full and all that; Bucky preferred to think of himself as a _realist_ rather than the pessimist Steve always accused him of being. “You’ve kidnapped the Property Brothers and are holding them prisoner in your pantry?”

Steve laughs at that. “Duh, I’d only need Jonathon, not Drew. Don’t you know anything?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky pretends to sneer at him. “I know enough that this spells trouble with a capital fucking T. So what’s your secret weapon then?”

“You!” Steve tells him, a broad grin covering his face. 

“Me?” Bucky says incredulously, splaying his fingers across his own chest. “Hate to break it to you, pal, but the closest I’ve come to remodeling is replacing the toilet paper roll.”

He looks up when the door opens and two of their friends come in, and waves an arm in the air at them briefly to alert them to their location. Steve, whose back is to the door, shifts and looks as well, giving another wave to the two men now headed their way. Turning back to his dark-haired companion, Steve insists, “Come on Buck, your dad’s an electrician. He’s taught you all that electrical shit, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky admits in a conciliatory tone, “I know enough not to electrocute us both, but I don’t know jack shit about cabinets, or marble, and whatever else goes into a kitchen these days.”

“Pfft, that’s what YouTube is for,” Steve says dismissively, as a well built, dark-skinned man takes a seat on his right side and a shorter, stockier man with light brown hair snags the chair to his left. Two white, paper bags get deposited on the table at the same time. 

“Seriously Clint?” Bucky whines, “You’re sneaking food in here from another restaurant?”

“So that’s what took you so long,” Steve interjects. “What’d you get?”

Before either man can answer, Bucky grumbles, “You get us fucking kicked out of our favorite fucking lunch spot, and there _will_ be payback.”

“Oh, chill out, Barnes, no one’s getting anyone kicked out,” the dark-skinned man reassures him. “Clint had a craving, that’s all.”

“Craving for what?” Steve asks, trying to peek into the top of Clint’s bag. “I smell onion rings.”

“Paws off!” Clint yelps, swatting at Steve’s hand as it sneaks into the bag. “And what’s YouTube for, besides watching videos of otters?”

Sam eyeballs him. “Dude.”

“What?” Clint protests. “Tell me otters aren’t the most adorable things ever.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam insists, unrolling his white paper bag and delving inside, pulling out a foil-wrapped sandwich. “Point is, you’re wasting all your time watching otter videos when you could be helping me meet deadlines?”

“No,” Clint says impishly, one dimple in his cheek showing. “I also waste time watching dog and cat videos. You can meet your own goddamn deadlines.”

Bucky laughs as he regards them all. Sam and Clint both work in the same office he does; Steve works just a few buildings away in the same business district. It’s a fact Bucky is greatly appreciative of; he and Steve had been buddies since college, but Steve’s plans after graduation had been up in the air for a while. Bucky had been ecstatic when Steve decided to stay in town, not being from the area himself, like the others were. 

“I’m going to remodel my kitchen myself,” Steve announces enthusiastically, stealing an onion ring from Clint’s container as soon as it is lifted from inside the other white bag. 

“Sure you are,” scoffs Sam; Bucky lifts his eyebrows at him and nods as if to say, _yeah, that’s what I said_. 

“I am,” Steve says doggedly, glancing at Bucky and grinning. “Bucky’s gonna help me.”

Chuckling, Sam shakes his head. “Isn’t that like the blind leading the blind?”

“Hey!” Bucky puts in sharply, pretending to be offended. “I know stuff.” Not really. Not about remodeling, anyway, and even though he himself tried to dissuade Steve, now that a challenge has been laid down, he finds himself getting into the idea. How hard could it be? Having already finished his lunch, he steals another onion ring from the pile in front of Clint. 

“Come on!” Clint whines, but lets them take them anyway. 

“Yeah, you two know stuff like how to change lightbulbs. Not stuff like cutting tile and installing drywall.”

Boy, if Bucky was a realist, Sam could be considered the grim reaper here. Instinctively Bucky rises to Steve’s defense. “That’s what YouTube is for.” 

Steve smiles brilliantly at him when Bucky repeats his words. “So you _are_ gonna help me?” he asks, glowing already in anticipation.

“Of course I am, you dumbass,” Bucky replies grudgingly. “Somebody has to help you figure it out.”

\--

Later on, when the work day is done and Bucky has just finished up his dinner of leftover chicken parm, he decides to stroll on over to his neighbor’s house and see what he’s up to. He exits his one-story ranch from the back door and looks to his right. Sweet, lights are on. The house next door is also a ranch that has a back patio that the roof extends down over, with a wall that encloses it partially from the elements. There is a huge woodpile along the back wall for a wood-burning stove. 

The patio is left open on both sides, with a sliding glass door that leads to the interior of the house. A door that is constantly left unlocked, owing to the fact that the dog who lives here wants to go out fifty times a day and patrol the yard. As Bucky unlatches the gate that separates the two yards, he glances around for Tiny, but the yard is empty. The yard behind theirs, however, is not. A few animals and a very large man occupy it. 

“Hey Thor!” Bucky calls out as he latches the gate behind him. 

“Bucky, how’s life treating you this fine day?” Thor, a mountain of a man with a heart and demeanor as gentle as could be, was a veterinarian who lived behind Bucky. He frequently brought home injured or abandoned animals to care for and had a home office/kennel set up on his property, which took up the size of both Bucky’s property and the one next door put together.

“Livin’ the dream,” Bucky grins back and then stares. “Is that a pig?”

He walks closer to the fence line. There is, indeed, a pink and black pot-bellied pig running around in the yard, along with three dogs who all seem to accept the pig, about the size of a Pomeranian but less fluffy, as one of their own. 

Scratching at his short, blond beard, Thor approaches the fence as well. “Yeah, isn’t he a cutie?” He smiles. “Pigs are very intelligent animals, you know.” 

“Really?” Bucky eyes the small pig warily. “Why do they roll around in mud then?”

He hears a short bark of laughter, then Thor rests his forearms on the tall split rail fence. “Because they don’t have sweat glands, and it helps them stay cool when it’s hot out.”

“No kidding.” Bucky’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Learn something new every day. “He staying with you long?” 

“Just until I find someone to place him with.” Thor gives him a side glance. “You want a pet pig?”

Laughing, Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Keep looking, buddy.” He sets off for the house. “Have a good night, now.” 

“You too, Buck.”

Heading back up toward the house, Bucky steps onto the concrete pad of the patio and tugs at the sliding glass door. Open, as usual. It makes a whooshing noise when he pulls it open and steps through, then another when he pulls it shut again; from a distance he hears a voice pose a question.

“That you, Buck?”

Grinning, Bucky looks down at the dog who has suddenly appeared silently at his side. “It is unless Tiny finally learned how to open the door himself.”

“In the kitchen!” Steve’s voice calls out cheerfully. 

The house has a fairly open floor plan. The back door goes into a small space Steve uses as a home office. To the left is a large archway leading to the living room, while in front of him is another, smaller archway the leads to a kitchen/dining room combination. Bucky can see Steve’s oak dining table, but no Steve, which means he’s around the corner of the L-shaped room, in the kitchen area proper. 

He steps off and the dog follows, not having received his proper pets yet. Tiny’s head rubs against Bucky’s side, reminding him of his duty. 

“Oh, sorry, Tiny, I forgot,” Bucky says, and scratches his head as they walk. He doesn’t even have to bend down, since _Tiny_ is anything but. The Great Dane gives him a rumbly whine in thanks, then trots ahead as they round the corner. The kitchen actually is fairly hideous, having been designed in the seventies when olive green appliances were all the rage. Dark brown cabinets with etched, frosted glass panels adorn the walls, with sunny yellow linoleum gracing the floor and a laminate countertop and backsplash. 

Bucky wasn’t sure how Steve put up with it this long. If his kitchen looked like this he would’ve gutted it long ago. He turns the corner and there’s Steve, the long line of his body bent at the waist, leaning over the countertop and poring over a catalog of some kind. As he draws closer he can see it’s full of cabinetry—different styles, finishes, base and wall options. Tiny lies down at his owner’s feet.

“Oh!” Bucky says in surprise. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you!”

Looking up in equal surprise, Steve laughs. “Naw, I was just fucking with you.” His blond head shakes. “Of course I am.” He plops down on his forearms on the countertop and stares down. “Picking this shit out is hard, though.”

“Just throw a dart at it,” Bucky teases, putting his back to the countertop and leaning against it. 

“You want a beer?” Distractedly, Steve points at the fridge next to him, head still down in his catalog. 

“No, I’m good. How do you know what sizes of cabinets to order?”

At that, Steve’s head pops up again. “Oh, it’s really cool. You take your room measurements, they plot it into a computer, and it tells you what size cabinets you can fit in. I wanna order soon, since it takes a couple of months for them to come in.”

Looking around the room, Bucky does some mental calculations. “What’s the hurry? You’re gonna need at least that long to get this all gutted and ready to go. If you want to do any new lighting and wiring, that means drywall, too. Takes a while when you already have a full time job.” 

Steve’s mouth turns down comically as he gestures around himself. “What? Come on, we can gut this in a weekend.”

“We?” Bucky chuckles. “What’s this _we_ stuff? I thought I was in charge of wiring, not demolition.”

“I’ll compensate you with free beer.”

“You already give me free beer when I come over. Try again.”

Steve appears stumped, chewing on his lip. “My undying gratitude?”

Reaching out and chuckling again, Bucky pats his arm. “Your first offer was better. Work on it.” 

“Whatever,” Steve grumbles, then buries his head in his catalog a second time.

Pushing off the counter, Bucky decides to get into the fridge for that beer after all. Steve’s refrigerator is always stocked well with food and drink. Bending down to get a better view, he sticks his head into the cold interior. Bingo! Beer _and_ leftover chicken wings. As he backs out with a bottle of beer and the plate of chicken wings in hand, he sees that Steve was anticipating him and has already turned around to see what he came up with.

Espying the goods in Bucky’s hands, he tips his head and asks, “Didn’t you eat dinner?” before stepping over the huge mound of dog at his feet and heading for the dining table.

Bucky follows and plunks himself down in one ladder-backed chair. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

Rolling his eyes as he sinks down himself, Steve rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the table. “Why didn’t you grab the Ranch dressing, too?”

Taking a huge bite, Bucky mumbles around his food, “Cuz only wusses need Ranch to tone down the heat.”

Steve promptly flips him off, making Bucky smirk. Steve always gets super hot wings, but then drowns them in Ranch dressing. _Wuss._

“Did you see Thor outside?”

“Yeah.” Bucky swigs some beer to put out the fire in his mouth. “He’s got a _pig_ now.”

“I know!” Steve gushes, and Bucky knows all too well the look in his eye.

“No, Steve.”

“Pigs are really smart, you know. Smarter than dogs.”

“Steve, NO.”

“He’s house broken already, too.”

Bucky drops his wing and gestures with sauce-laden fingers. “You already have your hands full with Tiny. And what are you gonna do with a pig while you’re remodeling? You’ll be too busy to take care of it.”

Steve’s bottom lip sticks out as he pouts. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Throwing his arms over his head, he stretches to the ceiling, arching his broad back.

“I know I’m right.” Bucky selects a new wing and chomps down, watching him stretch with mild trepidation. The man doesn’t usually give in that easily. 

Those big arms come back down to rest on the table and Steve drums a little pattern on it with his palms. “So, what are you doing next weekend? I wanna start then.”

 _Aha_. There it is. 

“Whoa, you _are_ serious about this.” Bucky licks his lips as they burn from the wing sauce and considers his plans, which included watching baseball on TV and lying around. “I think I can squeeze in some sledgehammer time.”

“Great!” 

Steve beams at him, and Bucky smothers the feeling that he’s just bitten off way more than he can chew.


	2. That's The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy pre-Thanksgiving, American peeps!

Ch 2 That’s the Plan

_Coming over. Got stuff._

After glancing at the text Steve had sent, Bucky strolled over to his back door, flipped open the lock, and went back to the game he was watching, feeling mildly curious. _Stuff_ was their generic term for everything, and could mean anything from tacos to Thor’s pig from next door. 

But since he knew Steve had spent all week looking at samples of wood, floor tiles, countertops, and backsplashes, Bucky suspected this _stuff_ would be kitchen _stuff_. Sure enough, two minutes later Steve comes bundling through the door with his arms laden down with not only catalogs, but actual physical samples of different materials. 

“I need help,” he declares, dropping everything onto the glass top of Bucky’s coffee table and sliding next to him on his sectional couch. 

“Okay…” Bucky says slowly, first picking up the remote to turn the sound down, then nervously surveying everything that just got deposited in front of him. He hopes Steve isn’t going to ask him what he thinks…not because he doesn’t want to help, but because interior design isn’t really his forte and he doesn’t want to fuck anything up. His own place is all muted, neutral colors, which he likes because it’s calming, and because he can’t fuck anything up. 

He sneaks a glance into his own kitchen, which is open to his great room. Bucky _loves_ his kitchen. Not that he designed it himself; the previous owners of the house did, and it was like they had picked out everything Bucky would, if he knew what the hell he was doing designing kitchens. Sleek, glossy white cabinets are topped with black marble with grey veining in it. The floor is a dark slate. It’s modern, and cool, and is one of the things Bucky loves most about his house. 

Steve doesn’t notice his trepidation, as he busily organizes some samples for him, lining things up neatly. There’s lots of blue…and oak…oak cabinets, oak flooring, blue tile and something Bucky assumes is Corian, for the countertop. Also blue. The effect is very… _country-ish_ , and not something Bucky ever thought he would select. 

“What do you think of this?”

Wincing internally, Bucky takes a sidelong glance at Steve, who looks pretty uncertain himself. He’s looking down, not at Bucky, and his eyebrows are drawn together tightly, face pinched. 

“Did you…did you pick all this out?” 

Steve bites his lower lip and shakes his head. “Darcy.” 

“Oh.” 

Darcy is Steve’s co-worker, a lovely young woman with a dry wit and apparently down-home taste in kitchen design. 

“She was helping me pick stuff out and when she found out I have an oak dining table…” he scratches his head. “…this is what it ended up being.”

“Steve, do you even _like_ this?”

Looking up at Bucky from underneath his long lashes, Steve scrunches up his face and says, “Not really.”

Bucky laughs a little and sits back on the couch. “Then why didn’t you just tell her that?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings!” 

Bucky’s laughter grows louder, and next to him Steve’s shoulders start to shake as he joins in. 

“Fuck, Steve, it’s _your_ kitchen!”

“I know.” Steve buries his face in his hands. “I just didn’t know how to stop her once she got going.”

Leaning forward again, Bucky pushes the samples away from them both. “Alright, this stuff is out. You’re starting over.”

Steve uncovers his face, but his hands drop helplessly at his sides. “But I still need help deciding what to do.”

“I don’t think you’re as helpless as you think you are.”

“Just come with me to the countertop place and help me pick out some quartz? I don’t want to pick out cabinets without knowing what the countertop will look like.” Steve’s big, blue eyes turn on him, and Bucky wavers. 

“You know I know jack shit about design.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds weak and not at all convincing, and Steve moves in for the kill. 

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease?”

“Oh, God, alright already, knock it off,” Bucky grumps as Steve leans into him, pushing him over sideways on the couch with his gigantic, stupid shoulder.

“Does that mean you’ll come with me?”

“Yes,” Bucky groans, flopping to his back and throwing his arms over his head in surrender. When has he ever said no to Steve when he begs like that? Never. Not even that one Halloween when he thought it would be a great idea to buy a giant pumpkin, and then they couldn’t figure out how to pick the heavy son of a bitch up and get it into the back of his SUV.

“Yissssssss!” Steve sounds happy, so that’s all that matters. Bucky smiles at the ceiling while Steve grabs the remote, turns the sound to the ballgame back up and settles back on the sectional next to him. 

\--

“What about that one?”

Turning his head, Bucky cranes to get a better view of the sample of quartz Steve is pointing at. It’s got different shades of grey and white in it, which Bucky doesn’t mind, but the pattern is sort of spotty and busy. Trying to be a good shopping partner, he asks, “Do you like the pattern, or the colors?”

Steve drops his arm. “The colors. Maybe not the speckles so much.”

“Swirls are better?” Bucky glances next to him, taking in the strong profile next to him as his friend contemplates this. Strong nose and jaw. Short hair that stands up in the front, as Steve constantly runs his fingers through it. 

“Swirls are better,” he confirms, nodding his head. 

“Then we keep looking.”

They round another corner in the giant warehouse and start down another aisle. They’ve already passed by probably thirty samples and are still looking. Though he’s slightly nervous about steering Steve in the wrong direction, Bucky is doing his best to try and narrow down just what it is he _wants_ , and therefore find the pattern that he’ll be pleased with today, tomorrow, and far down the road. 

That’s the scary part—it’s not like picking out new drapes, or a bedspread. This is an expensive purchase, one Steve’s going to be stuck with for years to come, and Bucky doesn’t want to screw it up. They’re about halfway down the row when he spots it: a multi-toned grey slab, with swirls of white and tiny flecks of silver, almost like a stormy sky in appearance. 

With the back of his hand he bats at Steve’s back to get him to turn around. “That one?”

“Oh, Buck, yes!” Steve breathes when he sees what Bucky is looking at, and takes off speed-walking toward it. 

Grinning, Bucky follows and they both pull up short in front of it. 

Steve’s eyes are shining as he stares at the slab of rock, then back at Bucky. “It’s perfect.”

Mentally Bucky pats himself on the back. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

 _Yissss._ Bucky tips his head with a critical eye. “Okay, what kind of cabinets would you get? White?”

Jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, Steve shifts his weight from one side to the other. His chin juts out as he ponders Bucky’s question, staring at the quartz.

“I dunno. White is so hard to keep clean, especially with dogs, or kids…” he trails off, and Bucky can’t keep the look of surprise off his face. 

“Kids?” he questions, and Steve’s face turns toward his. “I didn’t know you wanted kids.”

Immediately Steve blushes to the roots of his hair. “Well, maybe someday…” he trails off again, shrugging his shoulders and turning away slightly, as if embarrassed.

Bucky smiles. _Kids._ Steve has thought about raising _kids._ They both just turned thirty and neither has had a steady boyfriend in freaking forever, so Bucky hasn’t really put much thought into it himself, much to the chagrin of his mother, he’s sure. He isn’t _opposed_ to the idea, though, either. And Steve, Steve would make a good daddy, if Bucky actually _did_ think about it. He was kind, and patient, would give you his umbrella if you were caught out in the rain, and make you chicken soup if you were sick. That was the kind of person Steve was. That was nothing to be embarrassed about. 

“FYI, I think you’d make a good dad,” Bucky says softly, and Steve starts next to him, as if he had been lost in thought and forgot anyone else was even there. 

But he turns back to Bucky and smiles, like Bucky just paid him the highest compliment he could. “Thanks, Buck,” he states bashfully.

Before it has a chance to get weird, Bucky looks at the quartz again. “What if you did a dark color on the lower cabinets, to keep them cleaner, and white on the uppers?” Steve is looking at him funny, so he adds on hastily, “I hear people do that sometimes…nowadays…”

“I thought about that, too!” Steve’s tone is one of mild excitement and validation, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Oh good, I thought _you thought_ I was crazy!”

“No, I like it.” Steve nods and smiles. “I like it.”

\--

“It’s demo day!” Steve announces gaily, and Bucky puts his hands over his ears and groans. 

“God, you are insufferable this early in the morning.”

Handing him a large travel mug, Steve says perkily, “That’s why I made you coffee.”

“Wasn’t it supposed to be beer?”

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Buck.”

“And…?” Bucky jokes and looks around the room he just walked into. The countertops in Steve’s kitchen are bare, stripped of any gadgets or accessories that may have been housed there. “Did you already empty out the cabinets?” He turns to his companion and stares. Steve has on an old pair of jeans and an older t-shirt that must have shrunk in the wash, because it pulls tightly across his chest muscles and his deltoids. When did he have time to clear everything out of here? And have his chest muscles always been that big?

“Yup,” Steve answers, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Stayed up late last night.”

Bucky leans onto one leg and peers around the corner. There are no piles of pots and pans, or stacks of dishes, or boxes of non-perishable food, or _anything_. “Where did everything go?” he asks in wonderment. 

“Mars,” Steve says matter-of-factly, and laughs at the face Bucky makes. “Third bedroom,” he then confesses. 

Bucky slurps his coffee noisily. “Dude, I would’ve come over to help if you’d asked. That must’ve taken you forever.”

The blond shrugs mildly. “You’re already helping me.”

“And I expect to be well-paid,” Bucky teases.

“You’re gonna earn it today,” Steve promises, shaking his head and grinning. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Three hours later, Bucky is dripping with sweat and breathing hard, leaning on his sledgehammer to try and catch up on his oxygen supply. Steve is in similar shape on the other side of the room, still swinging away. They’d gotten all of the upper and some of the lower cabinets down and hauled out to the dumpster Steve had rented, despite them seemingly being not just screwed but _glued_ to the wall with some sort of epoxy that was designed by evil people. 

Otherwise, things were going swimmingly, and they didn’t even have to YouTube anything yet. Coffee long gone, Bucky takes a long swallow from the water bottle he’d brought over from his house, and watches Steve force the countertop up off the base cabinet on one side of the sink. 

The muscles of his upper back ripple with effort, and when he twists to one side a thick bicep protrudes out from under the short sleeve of his shirt, shiny with sweat. He stands and just watches for a minute, all those muscles working in perfect synchrony, and it’s fucking _hypnotic_ is what it is. Not that Bucky is checking out the body of his best friend. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and drops his eyes to the floor, frowning and setting his water bottle down on the linoleum. That would be weird. 

But when Steve moves to a new section of countertop and slams his sledgehammer into it with reckless abandon, face and neck covered with a light sheen of sweat, hair pushed back from his forehead, Bucky feels the definite churn of attraction in his gut, and arousal in his pants. Steve looks _sexy,_ and _hot_ , chest heaving in that tight-ass shirt of his, meaty thighs filling out his jeans so nicely. Bucky swallows hard and wonders what the fuck is _wrong_ with himself today. 

Instead of staring at his friend again, he looks up at the wall behind him. Gotta get some perspective. There are some chunks of drywall missing here and there, with chalky dust all over the place. Some of the drywall had come off in the process of taking off the upper cabinets, but Bucky thinks it can probably be patched up. Get some of that gooey stuff people use on drywall and just smear it around. That would work. 

Or he thought it would work, until Steve’s sledge misses the countertop and goes right up into the wall, punching a hole through the drywall completely. Bucky’s mouth falls open. There’s a big fucking hole. In the wall. He can see the pink insulation that used to be behind the drywall, all fuzzy and...pink. Steve stops, puts his sledge on the floor and turns around to look at Bucky, who is trying like hell to hide the smirk on his face. Steve blinks once. 

“Oops.”

Bucky is unsuccessful at hiding his smile now. “Oops?” he repeats, rubbing at his lower jaw.

“It slipped.” Steve glances at the sledge-shaped hole and back at Bucky, who chuckles softly.

That makes Steve look slightly annoyed. “I just put a huge fucking hole in my wall. Why are you laughing?”

“Honestly, I’m just glad _you_ did that, and not me.”

Pivoting on his heel to look at the wall again, Steve huffs and shifts his weight; one hip juts out as he settles, tilting his head at the sight in front of him. Now unobserved again, Bucky tries not to be weak…and fails. His eyes drink in Steve’s silhouette from head to toe. It’s just…God, why does he look so enticing? 

“Do you think we can patch it?”

Smothering a laugh, Bucky replies with a non-committal _ummm_ ; Steve then turns and shakes his head. “I think a break is in order.” 

"Yeah, me too.” Bucky nods, grateful for a distraction. Maybe he needs to go dunk his head in a sink full of cold water. Steve heads for the back door, whistling for Tiny on the way there. The Dane had been singularly well-behaved, staying out their way and camping out on the couch the whole time they’d been banging away in the kitchen. He hops off his cozy perch as soon as he hears his owner’s whistle and pads to the sliding glass door, tall ears perked up in interest.

Sliding it open, they all go out into the back yard for some fresh air, and in Tiny’s case, to take care of some business. By now it’s getting close to midday Saturday, which means Natasha, Thor’s assistant, will be at the house to care for the kenneled animals there, while Thor and his wife, Jane, are still working at their clinic. Bucky casts his eyes over in that direction, but there are no animals out at the moment. 

He scopes out the rest of Steve’s yard, but it’s no different than it has been every other day he’s been back here. Rectangular in shape, tall split rail fence to keep Tiny contained, with a pretty big oak tree on one end, still green since it’s September, and some flower beds up by the house. Nothing out of the ordinary to focus on. 

That means his eyes are drawn back to his buddy, who just happens to be bent over with his back to Bucky, picking up a tennis ball to throw for his dog. _Fuck_ , he’s never really noticed what a great ass Steve has. A flush of heat starts low, deep in his gut, and a thrill runs through him as he looks at Steve’s body. _Attraction_. That can’t be what it is, and yet that’s what it is. He’s never had this kind of physical reaction to Steve before. 

He’s up now, standing tall, tossing the ball across the yard with his ridiculously strong arm, wide chest and tiny waist on display, and Bucky is horrified to hear himself make some sort of needy _sound_ in the back of his throat. This was _Steve_ he was thinking about, his _best friend_. He passes a hand over his eyes, closing them for a moment, and hears a feminine voice call out. 

“Headache, Bucky?”

It’s Natasha, shoulder-length red hair bouncing in the sun as she comes down the three steps from the two story, brick house and into the grass. With her are the three dogs, the tiny pig, and now a baby goat, white-haired and knobby-kneed. 

“No, I’m fine,” Bucky declares. “How are you, Nat?”

“Great!” she sings out as she is crossing the yard. Two of the dogs, both Labrador mixes, circle her, jumping up and down for her attention, while the goat bleats excitedly behind them. 

Meanwhile Steve has turned back to Bucky, a concerned look on his face. “You OK, Buck?”

“Yeah, totally fine.” Bucky waves him off and steps forward toward the fence to talk to their other friend, saved from his own thoughts by her presence. Over time they had become more than just neighbors. Bucky didn’t have any pets to be treated by Thor and Nat, but that didn’t stop them all from becoming pretty chummy, passing many more than one evening together over the years. 

As Bucky pulls up to a stop next to the fence, Tiny comes to stand next to him, tail wagging, head high. He doesn’t bark, which Bucky thinks is awesome, just watches the antics of the other animals attentively. When the little pink and black pig trots over and snuffles in greeting, the Dane does drop his head down and offer his nose right at the wiring that runs the length of the split rail fence. Both their tails wiggle in a friendly way. 

“Awww, look, they _like_ each other!” Natasha croons, looking at Steve suggestively. 

“Don’t encourage him!” Bucky whines in mock annoyance, and Natasha giggles. 

“But he’s such a good little boy,” she argues good-naturedly. “I know you’re thinking about it, Steve, I can see it in your face!” She reaches up and over the fence to pinch Steve’s cheek, having to stretch up on her tip-toes to do it. 

He grins but shakes his head, running his hands up and down his thighs, as if to stop himself from picking the pig up to hold him. “He is cute,” Steve agrees, “But Bucky’s right, I don’t have time right now to spend with a new pet.”

“Excuse me, I was what?” Bucky cups a hand around one ear expectantly. 

Steve’s eyes roll melodramatically. “I said you’re a jerk who needs psychiatric help.” 

The smiles on both their faces are huge. _Now this is more like it_ , Bucky thinks to himself. _This is what I’m used to._ Those other, unfamiliar feelings he can squash down deep, so deep he doesn’t have to think of them anymore. Or that’s his plan, anyway. 

“How’s demo day going?” Natasha asks as she squats down and picks up the pig, holding him in her arms and scratching his head.

“I’m allergic to sledgehammers,” Steve jests.

Quirking an eyebrow at him, the redhead replies, “I’m not even going to ask any more questions. At least neither of you have lost any body parts yet.”

“Well, we’re just getting warmed up.”

Natasha makes a cackling sound that gets a smile from both men. “Sounds promising. You boys just let me know if I have to call the quad.” She sets down her charge and backs away from the fence, grinning.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says smartly, grinning at Bucky.

“Will do,” Bucky gives her a wave and turns back toward the house. In his head he thinks, _just try not to ogle your best friend’s body any more today._ He pokes Steve in the ribs and says out loud, “Let’s maybe just try not to add any more holes to the wall today.”

Steve pokes him back, giving Bucky an eyeful of his thick bicep and forearm. “I dunno, that’s setting the bar pretty high.”

Bucky has to purposefully drag his eyes away from Steve’s muscles. _Damn straight it is_.


	3. Set The Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

Ch 3 Set The Bar

They do manage to finish demolition of the kitchen without any more holes in the wall. The floor is another story. Once they’d removed the terrible linoleum and exposed the subfloor, there were a couple of spots that were in bad shape and wouldn’t be able to support a new floor. A leak under the sink, probably from long ago, had rotted the plywood right through and they’d had to cut out two large sections that would need replacing. 

Bucky tried to console Steve as best he could. “Well, you gotta expect some damage in a kitchen this old.”

For his part, Steve was good humored about it. “No wonder the floor was so squeaky by the sink,” he’d remarked as they carried a rotted piece of plywood out and tossed it into the huge, metal dumpster. 

The sink itself was already in there, since Steve didn’t plan on keeping it. In fact, the only things left in the kitchen were the refrigerator and the stove. The microwave had already been relocated to the bedroom. Everything else was trash; the fridge and stove would go eventually too, in favor of new stainless steel versions, but Steve still had to eat and cook in the meantime. 

Bucky had questioned the loss of the sink, but there was really no way to keep it intact and still do all the work they needed to. “How will you manage without a sink?”

Shrugging resignedly, Steve had said he would make do, getting water and washing his dishes from the bathroom sink or the stationary tub in the laundry room.

“You could use paper plates and plastic silverware for a while, right?” 

But his friend had frowned at that, not wanting to produce so much waste. “I’ll get by. It won’t be for long,” he’d insisted. 

That was day one. They’d ordered pizza for dinner and ate it right out of the box, no muss no fuss, and Bucky almost never noticed how plush Steve’s lips were or how good he smelled, both first thing in the morning and even at the end of the day. On day two they’d removed some drywall, both from the walls and the ceiling. The lighting in the kitchen had been limited to one large ceiling fixture in the center of the room, and Steve really wanted to install several can lights.

That was when they’d noticed some of the wiring was bad. Two of the outlets had scorch marks behind the electrical boxes, and some of the very-old wires appeared frayed. 

“This is all going to have to be updated,” Bucky had ruefully told him. That was expensive and time-consuming to do properly, but it had to be done or he risked a house fire. That meant Steve would have to go longer without a functioning kitchen, but he still took the news like a champ.

“I figured the kitchen would be a problem, since the circuit breaker got tripped sometimes when I had too much stuff going. I’m just glad you’re here to help me,” Steve had said, and that made Bucky feel good, and guilty at the same time. 

Good, because he could really help his best friend out and after all Steve had done for him over the years, it seemed only fair. Guilty because when the words _I’m just glad you’re here_ tumbled out of Steve’s mouth, Bucky had imagined telling him the same thing, but at the same time sliding his arms around that slender waist and holding him close. He imagined how warm Steve would be, how hard those muscles would feel in his hands, how soft his skin would feel.

Jesus fuck, he was going to burn in hell.

\--

Three weekends later, Bucky is in trouble. Not with the electrical wiring; that they’re almost done with, and they’ve also put down new plywood subfloor. He’s in trouble because he finds himself thinking about Steve a _lot_. A LOT a lot. In ways friends don’t think about each other. He thinks about how much he wants to be near him. How he wants to sit too close, how he wants to touch the bare skin of his arm even when he has no reason to, how he wants to run his fingers through his blond hair every time Steve does. 

Of course, he’s wondered if he just really needed to get laid and that would solve his problem for him, but he doesn’t think that’s it. Why? Because Steve’s been making him think not just lusty thoughts, oh no. Steve's been making him think tender, squishy thoughts too, thoughts that were pretty unfamiliar to Bucky. 

Like when Steve went out of his way to buy the mixed nuts that didn’t have walnuts in them because he remembered Bucky doesn’t like walnuts, when Sam forgets every single time and thinks it’s pecans he doesn’t like. Steve _knows_ all this stuff about him, and _cares_ about all that little, inconsequential stuff; it makes Bucky’s chest feel warm and his brain fuzzy, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

He’s even wondered if maybe he should _tell_ Steve he’s having these feelings…but one thing keeps stopping him. A distant memory, back from their college days. He and Steve had met as freshman, strangers thrown together as dorm roommates. They’d struck up a friendship immediately and had been inseparable from very early on, bonding over their shared love of pizza and video games.

It didn’t hurt that in time they both revealed to each other their bisexuality, either. They never dated each other; Bucky didn’t feel that way about Steve, or he didn’t _think_ he did. They’d both had not-so-serious relationships, ones that never seemed to last. One night, though, after coming home slightly drunk from a party, it happened. 

They had both staggered into their dorm room and got into a wrestling match, arguing in a friendly way over who would get the leftover pizza in their tiny fridge. Bucky had Steve in a headlock when his roomie had fallen backwards onto the bottom bunk in their room, with Bucky tumbling over on top of him. He wasn’t positive who kissed who first, though he suspects pretty strongly he himself initiated it. What he does have a clear memory of is the feel of Steve’s lips on his, Steve’s soft, wet tongue in his mouth, Steve’s hands climbing his back, Steve’s strong body underneath his.

They’d kissed and kissed, slow and deep, in no rush to either stop or to progress to anything further, and then fallen asleep on Bucky’s bunk together, long limbs jumbled up, because who wanted to climb up on the top bunk at two in the morning? When Bucky woke they were still tangled up together, warm and sleepy. Steve’s scent had been all around him and he’d had a moment of complete euphoria and _rightness_ , replaced by complete horror at what he’d done.

Steve had a _girlfriend_. He’d never expressed any desire for a relationship with Bucky, so what the FUCK had Bucky been doing kissing him? He’d started so badly and sat up so quickly he woke his bunkmate up too. What followed was ardent apologizing ten times over, relaying how sorry he was, how he didn’t mean to come between Steve and his girlfriend, how badly he felt about it. Most of all, how he hoped this wouldn’t affect their friendship. 

That was almost the worst thing—the fear that it would drive them apart, that he would lose his best friend. That, he didn’t think he could take. And Steve, Steve had just looked disappointed, disappointed in _him_ , Bucky was sure, disappointed that Bucky had shown such poor judgment. But then Steve had assured him in no uncertain terms that he was planning on breaking up with his girlfriend anyway, so Bucky had done no harm there, and that their friendship was most important to him.

That. _That_ was the worst thing. Bucky’s stomach had dropped out from under him, leaving him feel sort of…deflated. For a split second he maybe was hoping for a different response—maybe he’d been hoping Steve would _want_ to explore something different with him. But then it was gone. And Steve didn’t. Apparently the kissing was just that, kissing, and didn’t mean anything. The guilt Bucky had felt when Steve did break up with the girl he was seeing effectively guaranteed he would not continue to pursue any train of thought that involved anything other than friendship, as far as Steve was concerned. 

That was ten plus years ago. Their friendship _had_ endured, had grown even stronger, as a matter of fact. They didn’t talk about that night ever again and Bucky really thought it was in the past, buried and forgotten, until now. Now that he wanted to feel Steve’s mouth on his again, now that he craved more than the friendship Steve had given him all these years. 

But Steve didn’t want that. And that was what was stopping Bucky now from sharing those thoughts with him. Instead, he held them in and pretended he wasn’t feeling what he was feeling. He pretended nothing had changed between them, even though that was getting harder by the day. 

He was at work at the moment, not doing any actual work. Instead he was having a delightful little daydream about Steve—Steve telling him he’d been having _feelings_ for Bucky he’d never had before, Steve touching his face, lifting his chin to press a soft kiss to his mouth and ask if Bucky had been having those feelings, too. 

“Yes.”

Bucky stares at his computer screen, with its project budget spreadsheet, and sees Steve’s face, beautiful and hopeful, blue eyes darkening with need. 

Sam’s dark head suddenly pops up over the top of the cubicle next to his. “Yes, what?”

Bucky swallows a lump of desire and looks up in confusion. “What?”

Smiling, Sam throws his arms over the edge of the grey, fabric covered cubicle wall and hangs there. “You said yes. Were you talking to me, or that potted plant on your desk?”

Bucky glances at the overgrown fern sitting next to his computer. “Herbert. His name is Herbert. And I didn’t say anything.”

Sam just laughs. “Your dementia is showing again, dude.” 

Bucky grimaces. That _yes_ was totally non-verbal, right? “Don’t you have something you should be doing right now?”

“Yeah, Clint is setting up our Survivor fantasy league as we speak.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Is that show still even _on_?”

“Bite your tongue, boy!” Sam barks at him. He disappears for a moment, chair squeaking as he sits back down, but then pops back up immediately. “We still on for tonight?”

Tapping at the edge of his desk with two fingers, Bucky looks up again. “Yep!”

They have plans to meet at Bucky’s that evening to watch football, and tomorrow he and Steve are going to finish up the wiring for the can lights he bought. If they get really industrious, they might even tackle the new chandelier they picked out to put over the dining table. Bucky smiles at the memory of going to the lighting place with Steve, how he had agonized for an hour over what kind of light fixture to select. How cute he’d looked, biting at his bottom lip while he compared one light to another. How exquisite it had felt when Steve put both his hands on Bucky’s shoulders while standing behind him, ducking his head down and resting it on Bucky’s upper back as he struggled with his decision. 

“It’s just a light, man,” Bucky had insisted, just to force some movement on the issue, and Steve had _finally_ picked one out. 

As per usual, he’s looking forward to spending more time with him (even though that means giving up more weekend free time), while still trying to keep a lid on his yearning. Good luck with _that_. For right now, though, he turns back to his spreadsheet. He’s got a budget to review. 

\--

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Clint screams at the television. “HE’S WIDE OPEN! PASS IT!”

Next to him on the sectional, Steve grins and bumps his knee into Bucky’s. “Don’t think he heard you, yet, Clint. Maybe a little louder.”

“Aww FUCK!” Clint curses and drains his bottle of beer. He was a mad man when it came to football, more than any of the rest of them. 

Sam is laughing as he strolls in from the kitchen, carrying a plastic bowl filled to the brim with nacho chips, and a smaller bowl for the salsa. 

Frowning, Bucky sits up straighter. “You best not be slopping salsa all over my furniture, Wilson.”

Clint sets down his beer bottle and hoots. “I know just what to get you for Christmas this year, gramps. Some nice plastic slipcovers for your couch and chairs.”

Sam throws his head back and laughs as he sits down. “Maybe some lace doilies for your end tables?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky grouses and looks back at Steve, secretly loving it when he bonks their knees together again. 

“I’m getting up. You want a bowl for salsa? I’ll even bring us some napkins.”

“No, I’m good, thanks.” 

They’ve all become so used to spending time together that it doesn’t really matter who’s “hosting”; they all act like they’re in their own home. Bucky’s eyes track Steve’s movements when he pushes himself up from the sectional and heads for the kitchen. _Steve_ isn’t a heathen. _Steve_ understands the need for clean furniture. He also looks really fucking good in his worn jeans with the ripped back pocket and his firm, round ass. Bucky considers ripping some other items of clothing off of him and loses track of the conversation around him until Sam reaches over and slaps him on the shoulder.

“Ow. What?”

“I said…never mind. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Bucky denies, screwing up his face. 

The look Sam gives him, one eyebrow raised, chin tilted down, says without question he thinks Bucky is full of shit, but he doesn’t press. 

“GODDAMN SONOFABITCH!” Clint hollers at the big screen. 

The back door opens and two additional people enter the room without preamble.

“It’s a good thing your neighbors are such understanding people, otherwise a noise complaint might be lodged with the local authorities,” Thor teases, striding into the room with a six-pack of beer in hand. 

Natasha, one step ahead of him, plops down next to Clint and throws her arm around his shoulder. “Hey babe.” 

“We’re playing like shit,” Clint mumbles, chin in hand and back bowed with disgruntlement.

“So we gathered…from across the yard,” she jokes, and runs a hand up through his hair to ruffle it up. Natasha had started working for Thor four years ago and had been introduced to Clint three and a half years ago. They’d been dating for the last three years. 

Clint sits up straight to ask, “How’s Jimmy Dean doing?”

Natasha cuffs him on the back of the head this time. “We are not calling him that.”

Bucky turns his head toward them. “Who’s Jimmy Dean?”

Sam gives him a gap-toothed grin and waves a nacho chip around. “Come on, Jimmy Dean…inventor of delicious little sausage sandwiches.”

Bucky calls Sam a smart ass just as Steve returns from the kitchen, looking around the room innocently. 

“Did something happen to Jimmy Dean?”

“No!” Clint explains. “That’s what the pig’s name is.”

“That’s NOT what the pig’s name is!” Natasha’s rebuttal is insistent. 

Bucky knows better than to get in between Nat and Clint. He rolls his head towards Thor. “What’s the pig’s name, Thor?”

But the big man only point at Natasha and smiles. “Ask her, she’s the one who’s keeping him.”

“What?” Sam, Steve and Bucky all say simultaneously, and Natasha preens.

“Well, we couldn’t find a home for him, and anyway he’s just too cute to give away. And his name is Pumbaa.”

Clint is slowly shaking his head, like he can’t believe he got suckered into this. 

“Congratulations, Clint, it’s a piglet!” Sam cries out. Natasha just grins. 

\--

It’s the next morning, and Bucky is confident that today is the day he’s going to be able to get through all their work without having any fantasies about him and Steve. Enough is enough, right? If he can’t tell Steve about it, then he needs to _get over it_ and make things go back to the way they used to be. 

That meant some self-imposed rules were going to have to be followed. No longing glances. No scoping him out in secret when Steve wasn’t looking. No infernal romantic scenarios muddying up his head. Yeah. Bucky nods to himself as he polishes off his Rice Krispies and plunks the bowl and spoon down in the dishwasher.

Heading next door via his usual route, Bucky gets exactly ten feet inside the house when he breaks his first rule. Steve is wearing a light grey, moisture-wicking tee shirt. The kind that clings to your body everywhere. He’s sweaty and red-faced, breathing slightly fast, and Bucky realizes he’s just gotten back from a run. It’s an innocent enough activity, but also one that makes Bucky’s mouth water. Sweaty, breathless Steve is awfully close in appearance to what he imagines a post-sex Steve to look like. And lately, he’s imagined that numerous times. 

“Hey neighbor, didn’t think you’d be up quite this early,” Steve is saying to him, while Bucky tries to cram his tongue back into his mouth. Damnit, it just wasn’t fair. Steve shouldn’t be walking around like that, looking so fucking tempting. His shirt is plastered to the firm, rounded muscles of his chest. How was a man supposed to ignore that?

“Uhhhh,” he answers intelligently, stopping next to the dining table for no apparent reason. 

Fortunately, Steve seems to take his lack of verbal and motor skill for sleepiness. “I’m just gonna shower off real quick. Coffee’s brewing in the other room.”

Okay, coffee, yeah. Coffee will help. The blond doesn’t wait for him to respond, just turns and heads the other way, past the living room and down the hall toward the bedrooms. His master suite is on the left side of the hallway, with two other bedrooms and a guest bathroom on the right.

Bucky breaks his second rule on the way down the hall, following Steve and fixating on his ass the entire time. No, that isn’t true. He fixates on the beautifully defined muscles of his upper back, too. Steve was just big all over, not exactly weight-lifter class, but definitely buff. Bucky was no small guy, either, and he knew what kind of effort it took to look like that. 

Steve kept himself fit not out of vanity, though. He genuinely enjoyed working out and wanted to stay in tip top shape, motivated by a myriad of health problems he’d had as a child. Bucky didn’t know him back then, but to hear Steve talk about it, he’d not been in good health until his early adulthood, and had put an enormous amount of effort into developing his current stature. 

Some people were just born with good genes…Steve had certainly inherited good looks from his parents, but he worked hard for the physique he had now. Somehow, though, he never let it go to his head. Bucky suspected that was because of his early struggles in life. He was generous with his time, dependable to a fault, and kind to everyone. And that just made him all the more attractive to Bucky. 

Of course, it wasn’t Steve’s kindness Bucky was staring at as they traversed the hall. 

When Steve turned left to go into his bedroom, Bucky turned right to enter the third bedroom, where Steve had set up a makeshift kitchen area. Sure enough, a fresh pot of coffee was brewing, with the aromatic smell filling his nose as soon as he crossed the threshold. _Coffee._

Time to re-group, and caffeine would certainly help with that. Casting about the room with his eyes, Bucky looks for the coffee mugs. Dishes, silverware and some assorted pots and pans are stacked on top of a large dresser on the other side of the room. There was a big wardrobe next to that, which Bucky knew used to house blankets and other linens, but had been cleared out to become a pantry for non-perishable foodstuffs. 

It was all very neat and tidy, and very _Steve_. He picks up a coffee mug with the words, “all those who wander are not lost” emblazoned on the side and fills it up with steamy, liquid perfection. 

Okay, so how’s he gonna get out of this? So Steve is an attractive guy, so what. There were lots of attractive guys in the world. They didn’t all have Steve’s smile, though, or his red, kissable lips. 

No. Wrong line of thinking there. Bucky shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee, promptly burning the roof of his mouth. Across the hall he can hear the water running, which means Steve is in the shower. Naked.  


Naked and _wet_. 

NO. More wrong thinking. _Come on, Bucky._ Steve didn’t just turn hot overnight, he’d been looking at him with the same eyes for years. Surely that meant Bucky could get a handle on this.

So. Steve is hot. So what. He also had a great personality and sense of humor, and he never got mad at Bucky when he forgot to take his shoes off at the door and tracked dirt into his house.

 _No no no._ Bucky scrunches up his face so hard, his eyes cross. Maybe he should try to think of some reasons he _shouldn’t_ be attracted to Steve. Blowing on his coffee and taking another sip (but still burning his mouth a second time), he tries to think of some annoying habits Steve has…like how he used to say _supposively_ , until Bucky told him it wasn’t a real word. Then he stopped saying it, so Bucky supposed that couldn’t count as a current bad habit. 

What else was there? Occasionally at parties, Steve would smoke a cigarette. It was a filthy habit that was terrible for his health and one that Bucky didn’t condone at all, but at the moment, when he pictured Steve in a darkened room with his lips around a cig, sucking away at it, it was hard for that not to be at least a _little_ bit of a turn-on.

But still a bad habit! Yeah. _Filthy. And hot._ Bucky smacks himself in the forehead with his free hand. 

There had to be something else…maybe he was a bad lover. _Yeah, right._ Bucky didn’t actually believe that at all and was really just grasping at straws at this point. The fact that Steve was probably still a good kisser didn’t help that argument hold any water. Because Steve _was_ a good kisser, all those years ago. More than good.

Even though it had happened a long time ago Bucky could still remember how it felt. Steve knew what to do with his hands and his tongue. More so than a lot of the guys Bucky had dated over the years, as a matter of fact. Bucky has a scintillating mental image of himself pushing Steve up against his door and kissing the stuffing out of him when he realizes what he’s doing and curses under his breath. _I’m so fucked._

The water has shut off already so Bucky decides to meander back out to the kitchen. He just needs more time to figure this out, that’s all. There’s no need to panic. Stepping out into the hallway, movement on the other side catches his eye and he peers into the open doorway without even thinking about it. And freezes in place. 

It’s Steve, on the far side of his bedroom, back to Bucky, fishing a shirt out of a chest of drawers. Bucky’s mouth immediately runs dry. He’s wearing only a bath towel, wrapped around his slinky little waist, while the muscles of his back jump out like Bucky’s watching a 3D movie. And Bucky thought he looked good with his t-shirt _on_? Holy hell, this is a vision he’ll never recover from. 

Miles of smooth, creamy skin. A physique carved from marble. Sound reaches Bucky’s ears above the roaring inside them, and he realizes Steve is humming some wordless little ditty, because he’s just that fucking cute. He’s _humming_ , unaware that Bucky is behind him, leering for all he’s worth and trying like hell not to pop a boner. 

Bucky jumps in his spot and flees to the kitchen, checking behind himself to make sure his pants haven’t actually caught fire. _Steve Steve Steve. Oh God oh God oh God._ The words echo on repeat inside his head. Shit, he’s already broken two out of three rules, and they haven’t even _started_ the day yet.

_I’m so fucked._


	4. Getting To It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I didn't forget about this, just been busy. Should be more regular updating now. :-)

Chapter 4 

Bucky breaks his third rule, no sappy romantic daydreams, within the first ten minutes of work Saturday morning. He and Steve are finishing up the electrical outlets Steve wanted to add to make his kitchen space more user-friendly. They’ve installed two new electrical boxes, and Bucky is pretty chuffed he hasn’t messed anything up yet. 

Standing next to him, Steve is talking about something completely non-romantic in nature, like having an outlet for both his toaster and his coffee maker, and it’s off to the races for Bucky’s imagination. Somehow he drifts off into a pleasurable little fantasy in which he and Steve are piled up together on the couch, drinking coffee and trading kisses, and domestic-fantasy-Steve is so unbelievably sexy, it’s blowing Bucky’s mind. 

He turns to look at sexy bed-head romantic Steve again, and that’s when he realizes he’s no longer even in the room. When did that happen? He peeks around the corner into the dining area, but no Steve. _Probably went to the bathroom._ Instead Bucky looks at the outlet they’re working on. He’s previously pulled the wiring down the wall to the box and just has to finish the connections. Steve already turned the power off, so Bucky picks up a screwdriver and uses it to pull one of the exposed wire endings forward. 

That’s when he figures out the power is NOT, in fact, turned off. The power is still on, and surges through Bucky’s flesh and bone, producing the most unpleasant sensation he’s ever experienced. 

“FUCK!” he yells and instinctively drops the screwdriver. 

The exposure is enough to hurt, not enough to do any damage. He thinks. He’s been shocked before, years ago when his dad was teaching him how NOT to shock himself, and it was a feeling he never wanted to have repeated. He stares at his hand and then at the offending outlet, like it’s the outlet’s fault and not his. Don’t fuck around with electricity, his dad always says. Words to live by. 

_Stupid move, Barnes_. He should have been more careful, more alert. Not mooning over his bestie. He’s still in this state after a minute, contemplating his life choices as the surge wears off and his teeth stop feeling like they’re vibrating, when Steve comes back through the open door to the garage announcing loudly, “Okay, the power is off. Did you say someth—”

He grinds to a halt when he sees Bucky, motionless, staring at the wall like he’s seen a ghost. “Buck? Are you…” he gasps. “Did you touch the wire when it was live?” 

Bucky blinks and shifts his eyes in Steve’s direction. He just said something, right? His insides still feel like they’ve just been rearranged. Maybe his spleen was always supposed to be underneath his stomach. Steve rushes forward, touching both of Bucky’s shoulders to turn him and look him in the eye. “Are you alright?” The concern and worry etched into his face both soothe Bucky and spur him into a reaction. 

“I’m fine, I just…wasn’t paying enough attention is all.”

Steve gasps again. “You just electrocuted yourself?”

“Of course not.” Steve’s expression is one of disbelief, so Bucky elaborates. “Just a little shock is all.”

“Bucky, Jesus!” Steve clutches at his shoulders, fingers digging in, and his face says that he sees no difference between getting a shock and getting electrocuted. Steve’s hands are warm and comforting on his shoulders and Bucky would be fine if Steve didn’t ever move them, but he does want to ease his fears.

“It’s only a 120 volt outlet, don’t worry. Not enough to kill me.”

That was technically untrue…that much juice could have killed him if he’d hung on too long, but he didn’t feel inclined to tell that to his buddy. He’s also not inclined to tell him how much he likes Steve’s hands on him, because he likes that a lot. Also how close they are, so close they could kiss if they both just leaned in, just a little. 

A moment of yearning overtakes him and he _wants_ to kiss Steve, to thrust his tongue into his mouth and taste him. To hold him in his arms and never let go. He has to shake his head to get a grip on himself and fears Steve may have caught the look on his face, because he tips his head and looks confused momentarily. He must chalk it up to Bucky being discombobulated and post-shock hazy, because he shrugs it off and in typical Steve fashion, tries to take responsibility for what happened.

“God, I’m so sorry, I thought you heard me say the power wasn’t off yet to this side of the kitchen.” 

Bucky shakes his head, not wanting his friend to shoulder any of the blame for this, but not making any move that would dislodge his hands from his shoulders, either. 

“It was my own fault for being careless, not yours,” he insists, and watches Steve as the other man’s eyes check him over, looking for any damage visually. “I’m fine, really. No scorch marks, see?” 

He holds up his hands, teasing just a little. He usually doesn’t like being mother-henned, but he does like this attention. Steve’s hands remain in contact with his body, moving over his shoulders and bared arms until he is satisfied that Bucky is truly unhurt. Whether it’s excitement from Steve’s touch or the remnants of the electrical charge Bucky doesn’t know, but his skin tingles everywhere Steve’s hands travel. He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way Steve’s eyes move over him, either. Too bad it’s only to check for injury. 

“Are you having any pain anywhere?”

“Not now.”

Steve clucks at him sympathetically. “Do you want to stop for the day?”

“Yeah, I’m beat.”

“Really? Okay then.” Steve’s mouth forms a sympathetic frown. 

“Jesus, no, I was kidding. We just got started.”

“Alright then, but you tell me if you start to feel bad later on.” 

When Steve releases him, Bucky mentally sighs at the loss of contact, picks up the screwdriver from the counter and finally gets his head on straight. Might as well get to it. 

\--

They do get to it, though not in the way Bucky would have preferred, which would be with lots of naked skin and grinding. They finish the outlets but decide to hold off on the chandelier since they have to do a lot of drywall first. Steve is on a step ladder, finishing attaching the last can light to one of the exposed two by fours in the ceiling. Bucky is standing next to him on the floor, ostensibly to hold the ladder steady and provide emotional support, since there’s nothing else to do at the moment. 

Bucky, however, isn’t even holding the step ladder, because his eyes are level with Steve’s navel. His exposed navel. Steve’s t-shirt has ridden up since both of his arms are up over his head, and Bucky can plainly see the v-cut on both sides of his six-pack abs, leading down to his hips. There is a fine line of soft-looking hair down the center of his abdomen, disappearing into the low cut edge of his jeans. 

_Fuuuuuuuuck._ Bucky wants to bury his face in that hair, wants to run his tongue right down that trail and into those depressions on either side of his hips, wants to run his hands up and down those thighs, slide his hand down inside those jeans and take…

God, it’s so fucking _hot_ in the room, did Steve really have to have the furnace turned on full blast? It’s not fucking February, after all, it’s just the beginning of October. He’s breaking into a cold sweat just standing there. What’s he supposed to be doing? Oh yeah, emotional support. 

“How’s it going up there?” he asks, trying to pretend his voice didn’t just crack. 

“Almost done.”

Of course Steve turns around and his butt is right in front of Bucky’s face, and that does absolutely nothing to decrease his blood pressure. Shit, does he have a delicious-looking ass. His jeans are well-fitting, conforming to the contours of his muscled cheeks perfectly. It’s sinful. He can’t _not_ stare. Blood boils and rushes through his ears, sounding like water rushing through a giant tunnel, and he’s almost dizzy with need. 

He’s gotta move. He steps away from the ladder and turns away, grabbing his water bottle from the floor. He’d like to squirt himself right in the face with icy water, but that might be a tad suspicious, so instead he takes a long pull from it and tries to think of something else instead of how much Steve is driving him crazy. 

Work. Think about work. He flashes back to the moment Sam caught him by the water cooler the day before and asked him point blank what was wrong with him.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Bucky had insisted, but Sam didn’t fall for it.

“Something’s up,” he’d hissed, narrowing his eyes. “Are you quitting work for a new job?”

“No!”

“Got someone pregnant?”

“Fuck no!”

“Hmph.” 

Disgruntled and unsatisfied, Sam had shuffled off, and Bucky knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it from him forever. He just hoped his infatuation with Steve would wear off before his time ran out, because he’d be damned if he was going to spill his guts to anyone _besides_ Steve. If he couldn’t tell him, he wasn’t going to tell anyone. 

\--

It’s a Monday night, a night like any other night, and Bucky has just started cooking himself some dinner when Steve bursts into his house, crosses the room and turns it into not just any other night.

“Bucky!” he gasps, carrying a huge pot crammed with various food items. Bucky can see a box of pasta, a jar of sauce, and who knows what else poking out of the top of the pot. “I’m having a culinary emergency!”

Bucky laughs and sets down the knife he was using to chop up baby spinach. “What emergency?”

Leaning on the counter, Steve slides his pot down on it as if exhausted. “My emergency is I have no fucking kitchen!”

“That’s generally what happens when you remodel,” Bucky states, still laughing. 

Steve looks like a crazy man, sent over the edge by weeks of microwave and take-out food, eyes begging for assistance, fingers clutching the handles of his stainless steel pot like it’s a lifeline.

“ _Please_ let me use your kitchen! I promise I’ll clean up after myself and everything. And we can share what I cook, too.”

“Hmm,” Bucky mumbles as he pretends to think about it. “Whatcha making?” He peers down into the pot, as if his answer depends on Steve’s. 

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot upwards. He likes spaghetti and meatballs. “Welllll…” he hedges, and smiles at Steve’s puppy dog expression. “Alright then.”

Steve beams at him like Bucky is the light of his life. As if Bucky’s answer would have been anything other than a yes. He unloads his pot, which includes hamburger and bread crumbs for the meatballs, along with several small jars of spices. Everything but the kitchen sink…which Steve doesn’t have anyway. 

“You brought all that stuff, but no eggs?” Bucky heckles him, smirking.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve whines. “It’s hard carrying eggs. You’ve gotta have eggs.” 

“That’ll cost ya extra.”

Bucky’s kitchen has enough counter space that they can work together side by side, so while Steve handles the main course, Bucky continues on with the salad he was preparing. When that’s finished and Steve refuses his offer of help, he sits at the nearby kitchen table so they can talk about the day’s events, sporting news, and whatever else comes to mind. 

He almost never stares at Steve’s back side when he stands at the counter to chop or mix. And he almost never thinks about how amazing this would be if it happened every day. If he and Steve were together the way he wanted them to be. A strange feeling he tentatively identifies as _longing_ settles in his chest. Is this what it would be like if they (gulp!) _lived_ together? Because it’s nice. More than nice. 

So much more than nice, Bucky starts re-thinking his decision to keep his feelings to himself. Everything is easy with Steve. Why shouldn’t telling him the truth be easy? He can do this. Well, not right _now_ he can’t, but _sometime_ he will. When the time is right. One hundred percent sure. _Okay, maybe ninety-five percent_. So when Steve hints that he really misses cooking and eating real food, Bucky has to bite his tongue to keep from seeming too eager. 

“You know, you _could_ use my kitchen any time you wanted to, till yours is done,” he says in what he hopes is a nonchalant voice. 

“Really?” 

There’s that puppy dog look again. 

“Really.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

“Don’t mention it. I mean REALLY don’t mention it,” he jokes. “I don’t want Sam and Clint sniffing around here begging for handouts.”

Steve laughs, forks in more spaghetti and they both finish up their plates. After their meal is over, Bucky outright refuses to let him do dishes. 

“Uh uh,” he insists, when Steve makes a move for the sink. “You cooked, so I’ll clean the big stuff.”

“I’m not just gonna eat and run,” Steve argues, shaking his head and hogging the spot right in front of the sink.

“Oh yes you are!” Bucky bumps up next to him and muscles for position, forcing Steve over to the side where his dish drainer sits. 

“Oh no I’m not,” Steve says through gritted teeth, shoving back against Bucky’s side playfully with his shoulder. 

More shoving takes place. “Be reasonable, Rogers.” 

“I. Am. Always. Reasonable.” Steve grunts as they both jostle each other. 

Bucky is pushing back hard, but Steve’s got him in sheer bulk and starts winning out. He can feel his weight being shifted over to just one foot as Steve gains traction, so he quickly turns and puts his back to Steve’s side, trying to brace himself. He sticks one foot out and gets it wedged up against the refrigerator where it sticks out in front of the cabinets. His hands scrabble for purchase behind him, one finding the edge of the sink and the other finding Steve’s lower back, and he clings there, savoring the excuse to have any sort of physical contact with him. 

They’ve roughhoused like brothers for years, so it comes pretty naturally; they’re both laughing and both shoving each other around like school kids. Recognizing Bucky’s now-superior position of leverage, Steve turns in toward him, his chest to Bucky’s back, and wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, forcibly lifting him from the ground and slinging him to the side. Bucky’s foot falls and hits the floor with a loud slap, which is a good thing because it covers the needy gasp that comes out of his mouth when Steve manhandles him. Swallowing hard, he tries to recover. 

“Illegal use of hands!” he shouts, and turns around to face his assailant, smiling and hoping Steve couldn’t feel the pounding of his heart when his back was pressed so tightly to his chest. 

“Personal foul!” Steve picks up a dish towel from the counter and throws it in the air like a referee would throw a yellow flag. “Two minutes for roughing!”

Bucky snorts. “Dude, you can’t switch mid penalty call from football to hockey.”

“Same diff,” Steve insists, pointing at the kitchen table. “You’re going in the penalty box, and I’m washing my own dirty dishes.”

“Whatever,” Bucky sighs and gives up, reaching around Steve to pick up the dish towel from where it was tossed onto the counter. The man had a stubborn streak a mile wide when he felt he was being a nuisance, so Bucky gives up. He moves over to the dish drainer side of the sink. “Then I’ll dry.”

\--

Steve comes over the next night, and the next night…and the next night, too. This works out pretty well for Bucky, not only because his neighbor is a pretty good cook, but because it gives him legit excuses to spend more time with him. Not so much that he’s told Steve his secret, but he’s working up to it. Honestly. They fall into a routine with Bucky cooking one night, Steve cooking the next night. Until they reach Thursday, anyway, and Steve tells him he won’t be over Friday evening because he has other plans. 

Steve doesn’t say what, and Bucky doesn’t pry. They’re not joined at the hip, for crying out loud, and Steve still wants to start the drywall on Saturday morning so it’s not like he’s not going to see him again soon. Even so, a little part of him is disappointed. Slowly he is realizing that the more time they spend together, the deeper in he's getting. So much so, he never even sees it coming till the blow hits him right in the face. 

He’s just finished up his solo meal that Friday evening when he spies Thor and Jane outside in their yard and decides to go out and be neighborly. As he steps out his back door, he sees Jane pointing at the back of their house, with Thor scratching his bearded chin, looking deep in thought and nodding. 

“Hey guys,” Bucky says in greeting. “What’s up?” He strolls up to the fence line and they both come closer as well. 

“We’re thinking of putting on an addition to have more room for boarding,” Jane says brightly. She’s a petite brunette, a foot shorter than her husband but no less of a softie for the animals they care for. 

“Oh, yeah? I’ve heard you mention it before. Finally gonna do it?”

Thor nods. “Steve has inspired us to get our collective rears in gear.”

Leaning on the fence post, Bucky grins. “You gonna do the work yourselves, too?”

“Hell no,” the pair both say at the same time, and laugh. 

“Steve inspired us to get it done by someone else, not by us,” Jane supplies dryly. 

“I am a man of many talents,” Thor jokes, gesturing with a wave of his hand at his home, “but construction is definitely not one of them. You and Steve are the better men on that score.”

Chuckling, Bucky tips his head and grins. “Not sure how much better we are, but we’re trying.”

“How is it going?” Jane asks and looks behind Bucky to Steve’s dark house. “Not doing any work tonight?”

“No, Steve is busy.” 

“You mean _getting_ busy, right?” Thor snickers and Jane rolls her eyes. 

“Really babe? Keeping it classy, huh.”

Bucky looks from Jane to Thor, confused. Apparently they know something he doesn’t know. But what does that mean, Steve is getting busy? Surely not what he _thinks_ it means. Because that would mean…he frowns and Thor sees his expression. 

“He’s out with Peter tonight,” he explains, clearly expecting Bucky to know who the fuck he’s talking about. 

Peter? Peter who? Bucky can’t recall any of Steve’s friends with that name, nor any family members, not that Steve has any of those nearby. His nose wrinkles. 

“Who’s Peter?”

“Whaddya mean, who’s Peter?” Thor sounds surprised. “Steve’s new boyfriend.”


	5. It's Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's REALLY cold here where I live, so here's some fic to warm up your bones! As always, thanks for reading friends. :-)

Chapter Five 

_Steve’s new boyfriend._

The words echo inside Bucky’s head for hours after he says goodnight to Thor and Jane. At least, he thinks he says goodnight; the rest of the conversation that takes place outside is a bit of a blur. He does his best to hide his shock and despair at the news, pretending he just doesn’t remember the name of Steve’s new beau. Whether that ploy is successful or not he has no idea; he simply stumbles back into his house in a daze, feeling like a ton of bricks just fell on his head. The rest of the evening consists mainly of him lying on the couch, semi-comatose, pretending to watch a soccer game on TV. 

Jane and Thor had assumed he knew about Peter, and the assumption was a fair one. What they didn’t know was that he and Steve don’t ever talk about who they’re dating. _Ever._ They talk about everything else under the sun…just not that. Bucky isn’t necessarily upset that Steve didn’t tell him, because that isn’t unusual. What’s unusual here is his reaction to the news. 

Alone with his thoughts and the couch, Bucky is forced to examine more closely the reasons why he and Steve don’t discuss their dating partners. Is it guilt over what happened way back in college? Both of them dated sparsely since then and no relationship ever seemed to last long for either of them; any information Bucky got was secondhand mentions from their mutual friends. So, maybe it was because neither of them had dated anyone long enough over the years for that person to become truly important in their lives. 

Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe it was really because Bucky didn’t want to think about Steve being with anyone else. He sure as shit didn’t want to think about that now, but that didn’t hold true for all the years he’d known Steve...or did it? One thing that was true was that Bucky was accustomed to having Steve all to himself. It was also true that he’d always liked it that way. Even if they had never been _together_ together, they were still as close as any friends could be. Maybe he just didn’t ever want to consider the possibility of someone taking Steve’s time and focus away from him. 

_That’s pretty selfish, you asshole_ , he thinks, punching the pillow that he’d shoved under his head, after collapsing lifelessly down in his living room. He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s been an asshole all these years. He and Steve are best friends; there’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with him. Is there? It’s not that he specifically wanted Steve to be a bachelor forever…he just didn’t want to hear about any possibility he wouldn’t be. But why would Steve not ever want to talk about these things either? Bucky concludes Steve must have been picking up on his vibes and just following his lead. 

It’s all pretty complicated, his feelings for Steve and how he should be handling this. How is he supposed to feel now that he _does_ know? Mentally his thought process is a lot like the soccer game on the TV…a lot of back and forth motion without any satisfactory progress either way. The score is tied zero-zero heading into the last ten minutes of regulation, and Bucky is torn between agony and denial. 

He _should_ be happy for his best friend. He _should_ want his friend to find a partner to be with, since he didn’t have the guts to tell him himself that he wanted that role in Steve’s life. Now it’s too late to tell him. Steve has found someone new. And Bucky is _not_ happy. He’s devastated.

Every random thought of Steve with another man plagues him, like ten thousand daggers being shoved into his chest all at once, making it physically hard to breathe. He rolls from his side to his back and stares at the white ceiling above. Fuck the soccer game. It’s boring, anyway. He examines the smooth surface of the ceiling, wishing his brain could be that quiet and peaceful, but there is no peace to be had. 

Steve _can’t_ have a boyfriend, because he and Steve belong together. Steve _can’t_ have a boyfriend, because that would mean someone else besides Bucky is the right one for him. Steve _can’t_ have a boyfriend, because the thought of someone else kissing him, holding him, _making love_ to him is killing Bucky. 

But Steve _does_ have a boyfriend. Now Bucky has to figure out a way to keep his misery hidden away from sight. He has to figure out how to be around Steve without acting like he’s insanely jealous. Which he is. And what about this Peter guy? What if he has to _meet_ him? What if he starts hanging out with their group? Where did this guy come from, anyway? How long has this been going on? Too many questions, too few answers. 

Pulling a second pillow out from behind him and mashing it to his chest, Bucky closes his eyes and wishes things were different. Not so fucked up, or at least from his perspective. From Steve’s end, absolutely nothing’s changed. That’s his only solace, his only success at trying to put things in perspective. He and Steve’s relationship hasn’t actually changed. Things don’t have to be different unless he _lets_ them be different. That’s what he tells himself, at any rate. 

As he lies there on the couch he drifts off into a restless sleep and dreams of Steve. Dreams of Steve walking down a shaded path with him, with the wind rustling the fallen leaves around them. Steve looks sorrowfully at him and says, “I’m tired of being alone, Buck. Aren’t you?”

“Yes! It’s not too late…” Bucky had cried out, but Steve shook his head. The wind blew harder, shaking the foliage in the trees around them, and a faceless, blurred figure appeared, walking away with Steve arm in arm. A stranger, taking Steve away from him forever. 

_“It’s too late, Buck. It’s too late.”_

\--

He wakes at 2:11 a.m. precisely, with a massive kink in his neck from the odd angle his head was resting at on the arm of the couch, a knot in the pit in his stomach the size of Manhattan, and the lights and TV still on. It takes a minute for him to realize Steve hadn’t been there at all, that Steve hadn’t said those things. It would be wishful thinking, anyway, that Steve would ever want him. Clearly that isn’t going to happen. Groaning, he pushes himself up to sitting and shuffles off to his bed, turning everything off as he goes and falling into bed still in his clothes. Fuck it. Once under the covers, though, he thinks better of it and shucks off his jeans, tossing them out over the edge of the bed.

In the morning he still has the kink in his neck, and a deep melancholy mood to boot. Pushing himself up to stand, still in his t-shirt and undies, he stretches his arms up high over his head and arches his back, then rolls his head from side to side and tries to work out the stiffness. Today is drywall day and he expects they will be busy for hours. Hours and hours, alone with Steve. 

Before yesterday that would have been a reason to rejoice. Now? _Nothing’s changed_ , he tries to convince himself as he trudges into the bathroom to shower. But it feels like everything has changed. Stripping down, he decides to forgo shaving and take an extra-long, hot shower instead. He steps into the walk-in shower stall and pulls the clear glass door shut behind him. The black porcelain tile is smooth and cool under the pads of his fingers as he trails them over the wall and flips on the shower faucet. 

Keeping his eyes turned to the floor and putting both hands up on the wall in front of him, he lets the scalding water run over the top of his head and down over the rest of his body. The heat does help to improve both his neck pain and his mood, but he’s still tense. One hand sneaks down between his legs to give himself a little tug, and a low groan passes his lips.

Despite his best efforts to avoid it, Steve’s visage flashes in front of him. Another wanton moan escapes, and his cock twitches and jumps in interest. _Steve._ He strokes himself slowly, cupping his hand around his shaft and pulling on it to coax it to life. His eyes drift shut as steam rises all around him, and his mind drifts to Steve’s gorgeous face. What he wouldn’t give to have the blond there with him in the shower, naked and glistening wet, rubbing up against him. He fantasizes about pushing Steve up against the wall and kissing him, hard and deep, while he takes his erection in his hand. 

On his own cock he thumbs at the head, encouraging it to thicken and fill. Blood rushes south, pulsing through him with sweet familiarity. Rolling his hips, he thrusts into his hand and takes in a shaky breath, then sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites it. Oh God, it feels so good, pumping his hips in time with the strokes of his hand. He’s fully hard, craving the release he knows is coming soon. 

He sees Steve, ready for him with an erection that is already fully formed; the image of him with his head thrown back and bare chest heaving as he struggles for air plays out in his mind. There he jerks Steve off even as he jerks himself off, imagining it’s Steve groaning in pleasure rather than himself. He speeds up, closing in on his orgasm, picturing himself kissing Steve, mouths open and tongues twisted up together.

Their naked bodies are pressed together and Steve whispers to him, whispers sweet nothings about how much he wants Bucky, how much he needs him, hands clawing up Bucky’s back and twisting into his hair. Bucky’s breaths are short and gasping as he gives himself a little twist with each pass of his hand. God, his cock is aching, throbbing, curled up toward his stomach as he palms himself furiously. 

_Steve_. He envisions Steve, gyrating his hips as Bucky pumps his hand up and down. Steve, coming with a shout of Bucky’s name, coming because of what Bucky does to him. He moans shallowly in the shower stall, a series of short uhh’s and ahh’s while the pressure inside him builds. A few more strokes and then he’s there, spilling himself all over his hand and crying out Steve’s name. 

He pistons his hips a few times for a bit more friction, riding out the aftershocks of his climax before he slows and relaxes his tensed body. He’s got to stand there and just breathe for a couple more minutes before feeling recovered enough to clean up and do the things he normally does in the shower. Damn, even imaginary sex with Steve is hot. What would the real deal be like?

_Way to torture yourself, Barnes,_ he thinks as he towel-dries off. That’s the _last_ thing he should be focusing on…but at least he’s not thinking about that boyfriend. Or the kink in his neck. As he throws on some jeans and a t-shirt he wavers on how to play this out. Should he ask Steve about any of it? Ignore it until Steve brings it up himself? 

There’s always a chance it won’t work out, he thinks hopefully, then is ashamed of himself for wanting the relationship to fail. _Don’t be a shitty friend_ , he berates himself, heading into the kitchen for breakfast. There’s the tricky part. He’s not sure he can be the supportive friend he should be, without failing utterly and letting the cat out of the bag. Maybe it’s best if he just doesn’t bring it up. After all, however much he wants the details of what’s going on, he’s not sure he can really handle the details of what’s going on. What if Steve says he really likes this guy? That he thinks he’s “the one”? Can Bucky deal with that?

Just as he is getting ready to crack some eggs and scramble them, there is a tap at his back door. It’s Steve, looking delectable as always, but even more attractive today as he holds up a large box that screams _DONUTS_. 

“I brought you something,” he announces by way of explanation, and Bucky’s eyes light up. 

“Boston cream?”

“Of course,” Steve scoffs and sets the box down on the counter, then turns to face Bucky with a pleased smile on his face. “Skipped out on shaving this morning, huh?”

See, it’s shit like this that results in Bucky being all googly-eyed and totally gone on the man. Not only does Steve notice when he doesn’t shave, he brings Boston freaking creams, Bucky’s favorite. He can’t help but smile back as he tears into the box and picks up one chocolate-covered confection. As he sinks his teeth into it and watches Steve’s happy face, it’s a lot easier to just try and forget his earlier woes. He doesn’t need to hear about that Peter dude. He should just concentrate on the here and now. 

Steve is here. With him. Not with what’s-his-face. Steve selects a donut as well and crams a giant bite into his mouth, getting chocolate all over his top lip. Bucky immediately thinks about licking it off and stares at him as he licks his lips, then licks the chocolate off his own finger. Fortunately Steve is too enraptured with his treat to notice Bucky ogling him, so his eyes have free reign to drink him in. 

Maybe he can avoid talking about Steve’s boyfriend. Maybe he can even avoid thinking about Steve’s boyfriend. There’s no way he’s going to forget about his own lust for him, though…but maybe that’s a compromise he can live with. 

\--

Several hours later, Bucky has decided that putting up drywall sucks. And not in a good way. At four foot by eight foot dimensions the pieces are big, but it’s not so much the size or the heaviness of them that makes it suck. Watching Steve flex his very attractive biceps to carry those pieces in and out of the house does have its own appeal. 

It’s the cutting part that is the pain in the ass. Because you can’t just put up whole pieces of drywall. Well, you could, but then you’d cover up all your light fixtures, outlets, telephone jacks, and light switches. They’ve got a system going; Bucky measures where the holes in the drywall should go, Steve cuts with the jigsaw, and they hang the pieces in the kitchen together. 

They’d started off with a big stack of boards on the floor of the garage, where Steve has two sawhorses set up to hold them for cutting. The garage door is open to let in light and Steve is bent over one piece, jigsaw blaring when Bucky steps out from the house with more measurements. It’s been trial and error, since neither of them have ever hung drywall before. More error than trial, it seems to Bucky, since the measurements have to be very precise, down to the correct millimeter. 

He waits until the jigsaw stops and Steve looks up at him, pulling the breathing mask down under his chin as he does so and shoving his eye goggles up on his forehead. That’s another thing: the dust. You could choke on it if you breathed too much of that fine powder in, which was why Steve wouldn’t let Bucky do the cutting and insisted, like the stubborn jackass that he was sometimes, on doing that part himself. 

“This one’s ready to go,” Steve tells him, setting the saw down on the concrete floor. 

Nodding, Bucky throws his pencil and piece of paper onto the counter near the back door and picks up one end of the board, while Steve grabs the other end. They turn it on its side to get it in the door and then maneuver it into place on the wall. The new outlet for Steve’s toaster and coffeemaker is halfway up the wall and about a foot in from one edge of the board. The hole cut by Steve is several more inches closer to the edge. 

“Goddamnit!” Steve curses, sinking his fingers into the empty hole where the outlet should be sticking through. 

“What the fuck! I measured that twice!” Bucky exclaims, groaning in frustration. 

“How could we be so far off?” Steve leans on the board, takes his goggles off and bangs his forehead on it. “Drywall sucks!”

“I’m not arguing,” Bucky sighs. “Let’s take it back out.”

They wrestle the piece back out to the garage and put it on the floor next to the other two pieces they already ruined. Steve picks up the last piece of paper Bucky gave him and examines it. 

“Seventeen and three quarters. That’s exactly where I cut.”

Frowning, Bucky snatches the piece of paper from Steve’s hands and looks at it. “That’s an eleven.”

Steve frowns, too. “That’s clearly a seven.”

“It’s a one.” 

“No it’s not.” Steve grabs the paper again and points. “Then why does it have such a big tail?”

“That’s not a big tail, it’s a small tail. And my sevens have a second line on them to show they’re sevens.”

Steve rolls his head to the ceiling and back. “No one makes sevens like that anymore, Bucky!”

“Well I do,” Bucky insists stubbornly. “My sevens are perfect just the way they are.”

“They’re really not. And your fives are loopy.”

“Excuse me, my fives are what?” Bucky puts one hand on his hip. No one insults his fives. 

“They look like the letter S.” 

Steve moves over to the dwindling stack of drywall and squats down to pick up a new piece from one end, then waits for Bucky to join him. 

“They do not look like the letter S. Why would I make the letter S when we’re doing numbers?” Bucky bends and together they lift a new piece, sliding it onto the sawhorses. 

“I read somewhere that psychopaths make fives that look like S’s.”

Steve is plainly trying to hide a smile now, and Bucky chuckles despite them being repeatedly thwarted by sheets of drywall. 

“And I read somewhere that people who want help hanging drywall shouldn’t ridicule the people who are stupid enough to do it.”

“Touché.”

“I hate drywall.”

“Me too.”

They have to make a second trip to the home improvement store for more supplies, since they went through Steve’s “extra” emergency stash already, but eventually do get all of the pieces placed. The ceiling was just as bad as doing the walls, owing to the fact that they had to cut circles in for the can lights and then use step ladders to get the pieces up to the ceiling and screw in place. Not fun. 

But Bucky is relieved that Steve’s behavior toward him hasn’t seemed at all different; Steve hasn’t mentioned his date at all. Bucky hopes that’s a good sign (that things aren’t serious) and then slaps himself mentally for the thought. He’s extremely proud of himself for being able to work next to Steve the whole day without wanting to break into tears. There are a couple of nail-biting instances when he _thinks_ about asking Steve about his date, but then he chickens out. And only once does he get himself into a tight spot. It’s close to the end of the day and they are both tired of holding drywall up over their heads. 

“What are your plans tonight?” Steve asks as he drives in one screw.

Bucky, who is holding up the other end flush to the ceiling with aching shoulders, shakes his head. “I’m so tired I just want to pass out on the couch.”

Steve nods and fishes another screw from the box sitting on the step ladder with him. “Me too. You wanna stay and watch the game? We can get pizza.”

Bucky’s first thought is, _no boyfriend tonight?_ So, they haven’t reached the stage where they want to spend all available time with each other yet. Does that mean they’re still at the beginning of the relationship? Because Bucky’s pretty sure he’d be offering to help out any chance he could if he was Steve’s boyfriend. Again he hopes that bodes well for his chances, and again gives himself an internal bitch slap. _Stop thinking like that._ He’s so lost in thought about it, he forgets to actually answer the question.

“Buck?” 

He snaps back to attention to find Steve looking at him curiously, awaiting a response. “Earth to Bucky.”

“Oh! Yeah. I’m in.”

“Thought I lost you there for a second.” 

Steve is still looking at him strangely and Bucky wonders what the heck his face looked like to make Steve so suspicious. The electric screwdriver in Steve’s hand makes another loud zippy noise as he puts in another screw, still giving Bucky some side eye. When he’s done he passes the tool over so Bucky can secure his end of the board. 

He rubs the back of his neck with his empty hand. “My neck is fucking killing me,” Bucly complains without thinking about it first. In his eagerness to distract Steve, the first thing that occurred to him spilled out of his mouth. 

“What’s wrong with your neck?” Steve looks concerned and Bucky realizes his mistake too late. Steve’s overprotective streak has already been activated.

“Oh, nothing,” he lies and zips in a screw. “I just slept on it funny.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t have made you look up at the ceiling half the day!” Steve looks annoyed that Bucky didn’t tell him he was in pain. 

“It’s fine!” Bucky insists, grabbing another screw from the box. “Just a little sore, that’s all.”

“You just said it was killing you.”

“It’s called embellishing. So sue me.”

“Damnit Buck…”

“Hey, I was thinking about your cabinets earlier. They should be in soon, right?” Bucky tries for another distraction.

Steve always gets excited to talk about the progress of the kitchen, so the second effort works. “Yeah! Hopefully next week.”

“We’re going to be mudding and taping the drywall for a while, you know that, right?”

Steve shrugs and grins at him with his arms up over his head, flexing hypnotically while holding one side of the drywall in place. “Piece of cake.” He lets go of the board once Bucky gets another screw secured in his side. “Now, about your neck…”


	6. Doing It For Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys, but NASA officially declaring the Mars rover dead made me a lot more melancholy than I expected it to. Thank you Opportunity, for your long service! 
> 
> I haven't put a chapter count on here yet, mainly because I haven't gotten that far, but I'm thinking a few more chapters. Invariably when I put a number on, I end up adding a couple more chappies, so I'll just wait and see. :-) Thanks, as always, for reading and commenting!

Chapter Six 

The next morning Bucky is at work, straight away he seeks out Sam and Clint at the coffee machine in their small break room. After all, what are friends for if you can’t pump them for information? Clint is lounging in one metal chair while Sam stands next to the coffee pot, ready to pounce when it stops percolating. Both men look up when Bucky enters the room, first breathing in the delicious aroma of fresh coffee and then spitting out his burning question. 

“Hey, what do you know about this guy Steve is seeing?”

“Well, good morning to you too, bro,” Sam jokes, holding out one fist.

Bucky bumps it with his own and leans against the counter on the other side of the coffee maker. Clint leans his chair back on two legs, holding the underside of the table in front of him for balance, and answers him. 

“That’s Peter. He’s a friend of Nat’s, so she fixed them up.”

Trying not let his face fall, Bucky takes three Styrofoam cups from the stack on the counter, handing one to Clint and one to Sam. _Natasha_ set them up? “Who is he?”

Clint shrugs a little. “I think he went to school with her. I’ve met him a couple of times, seems like an okay guy. Why?”

Bucky freezes in place, with both Sam and Clint’s eyes on him. Why? Um. _Because I want Steve to dump him._ He lifts one shoulder nonchalantly. “Just askin’.”

Clint seems to buy that without question and goes back to rocking his chair back and forth on two legs, but Sam’s eyes just narrow. 

“Since when do you care who Steve is dating?”

“I don’t _care_. I’m just curious.” 

The coffee pot stops dripping so Bucky picks it up and pours himself a cup, then leans over and pours one for Clint, who is holding out his cup suggestively. He can feel Sam’s eyes still on him as he, too, holds out his cup and waits for Bucky to fill it. _Don’t act suspicious._ It’s Clint who inadvertently comes to his rescue when he changes the subject.

“Hey Bucky, speaking of Nat, did she ask you about Pumbaa yet?”

“Ask me what?” Bucky sets the pot back down. “I haven’t seen her in a couple of days.” He pulls open the drawer underneath the coffee pot and hunts for some sugar. 

“Thought you were calling that little sausage Jimmy Dean?” Sam puts in with a smile, and Clint laughs, setting his cup down on the table. 

“Pisses her off when I do that. Snag me one of those creamers and a swizzle stick, would ya?” he says, looking in Bucky’s general direction, so Bucky tosses him a tiny plastic creamer container and a stick and sets two sugar packets down on the counter. Sam, the heathen, takes his coffee black. 

As Bucky tears open his sugar packets and pours them in, Clint thanks him for the creamer and goes on. 

“We’re supposed to be visiting her folks next weekend for her dad’s birthday, but she’s worried about who will take care of the pig.” 

“Why can’t you just leave him with Thor?” Sam asks, blowing on his coffee.

Bucky shakes his head. “No, he’s closing down early next weekend and he and Jane are going to some conference, remember?”

“Dude, I’m not his neighbor. I’m not privy to his conference-attending schedule,” Sam replies in a mega-sarcastic tone, making Clint laugh. 

“Oh. Right.” Bucky puts two and two together. “Wait, you want _me_ to pig sit for Pumbaa?” He swivels his body to look at Clint, who is nodding and smiling as he stirs in his creamer.

“He’s house-broken, but it’s not like having a dog around. Pigs get bored, so he’ll prefer to be outside in your yard a lot, exploring. And he’ll probably ignore you unless it’s meal time.”

“Well, that sounds like fun,” Bucky intones dolefully, and Sam snorts laughter.

Clint shrugs. “What can I say, pigs are really slow to warm up to people. It’s only for a couple of days.” He tips his head upon seeing Bucky’s doubtful face and pleads, “Pleeeeeeeeeease? It would mean a lot to Nat.”

“What about Steve? He likes the pig.”

Clint sticks out his lower lip. “But Pumbaa and Tiny might not mesh well. Pretty please?”

Bucky heaves a sigh. “Ohhhhhh, all right.”

Clint claps his hands once. “My man!”

Sam slurps some coffee and looks at Bucky. “I’ve never been so glad I live in a condo.”

Bucky grunts, nods in his direction, and hopes he and Pumbaa can come to some sort of agreement. An agreement in which there is no peeing or pooping in the house for the duration.

\--

Later that night when Steve lets himself into Bucky’s house through the back door, Bucky is in the midst of cutting up vegetables for the stir-fry and doesn’t immediately hear him. Usually not a big deal—he leaves his door unlocked just for that purpose, after all, but after looking down at the cutting board and sitting and looking at his computer screen for much of the day, he’s got a fair amount of discomfort in his neck. He’s preoccupied with rolling his head in a big circle to get some circulation going just as Steve rounds the corner and spots him.

“Bucky,” he says in admonishment, “You told me your neck felt good.”

Bucky first startles at Steve showing up in such a stealthy manner, then releases a snarky laugh. “Yeah, that was the abridged version.” 

Steve scowls and steps up to the counter next to him. “And the unabridged version?”

“Good for nothing.” Bucky smirks and chuckles at his own joke, whacking a button mushroom in half with his knife.

“Bucky!”

“Kidding! It’s not that bad.”

That was sort of true, sort of not true. His neck was still bothering him, but it wasn’t _horrible_. Steve had already busted him stretching, so there was no point trying to hide it now, but he otherwise would have put up with the discomfort without complaint. Steve didn’t seem to agree with that course of action, though.

“Alright, stop.” Steve takes the knife from his hand and sets it down on the cutting board. “Sit down and just let me fix it already.”

Bucky allows himself to be led by the arm over to the kitchen table and plunked down in one of his own chairs. 

“What about our dinner?”

Steve shrugs. “So dinner is ready a few minutes later than it would have been.”

“You know what you’re doing?” Bucky queries, settling down in the chair.

“Totally. I watched a YouTube video.”

Suddenly an elbow digs into Bucky’s upper shoulder, just at the juncture of his neck, right where it hurts. _Hard._

“Yowwwww!” Bucky howls and jumps to the front of his chair, scooting away from that elbow and pressing up against the table’s edge. 

“Huh,” Steve turns and sits his sensational butt against the table, looking down at Bucky with a disappointed expression on his face. “That worked in the video.”

“Fuck the video,” Bucky grumbles, rubbing his neck. He never thought any part of Steve touching him would be unpleasant, but that sure proved him wrong.

“Okay, let me try something else.”

Turning back around, Steve gets behind him again, pulling him gently by the shoulders to bring him back in his chair. Dropping his hand from his shoulder, Bucky sits back and relaxes, trusting this time will be better and Steve won’t try to gouge a hole in his neck with any bony prominences.

Gentle fingertips touch his neck on both sides, tentatively at first, and when Bucky doesn’t pull away, slide up the sides of his neck to just behind his ears and then slowly back down again, like the soft caress of a lover. 

It’s better. It’s way fucking better. 

Working his way up and down Bucky’s neck, fingertips gently kneading his muscles and rubbing in small circles, Steve makes magic happen for the next five minutes, or five hundred minutes, Bucky doesn’t know or care. Steve’s hands on him…it’s so bliss-inducing Bucky has to bite his lip to keep a low groan from escaping. 

The tension and pain ease out of him; he’s so relaxed his head starts to loll to one side. Bucky’s eyes drift shut and he lets Steve keep going, keep rubbing as long as he bloody well wants to. Steve doesn’t stop, even when Bucky does an impersonation of a boneless mass of jelly, his body pliant and willing. He can feel Steve’s calming, reassuring presence behind him, can smell his scent. He’s like putty in his hands, reveling in his touch, feeling almost in a trance. Until Steve makes some sort of small noise behind him, and snaps Bucky out of it. 

His eyes pop open and he has to wonder, did he give himself away, moan out loud without realizing it? What was that noise Steve made? It was slight, quiet. Not a cough or sneeze. As Bucky stares straight ahead at the wall in front of him he realizes Steve’s hands haven’t stopped moving, so hey, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Maybe he was just clearing his throat. Maybe Bucky didn’t do anything embarrassing. Maybe he should stop while he’s ahead. 

“Hands getting tired yet?” he asks, trying to feel Steve out and sound light-hearted at the same time.

“You had enough yet?” Steve counters, but his voice wavers just a hair. 

Crap. Is Steve suspicious? _Really_ better stop now…but those hands feel _sooooooooo_ good. Bucky’s eyes flicker shut again. Maybe just a little more…he lets Steve continue for another minute or so, until he almost slips under the table in a spineless heap. His skin tingles everywhere. His body yearns for Steve’s touch _everywhere_. Warm fingers delve under the collar of his t-shirt, moving down towards his shoulders, then back up again. Geezus, is he good at this. 

“It feels wonderful,” Bucky admits dreamily, then suddenly realizes what he just said. _Double crap._ Was that too much appreciation for a massage from a friend? When he turns his head to look back at his masseuse, Steve is smiling like crazy. 

He stills his hands, looking at Bucky like he just paid him the highest compliment. “Really?”

“Really.” _God_ , the way Steve is looking at him. It’s so easy to project his own feelings onto him. So easy to pretend Steve is looking at him the way wants to be looked at. Those blue eyes, staring back at him. He wants to believe he sees longing there, the same longing he’s feeling. 

But that’s not going to happen. Steve has a _boyfriend_ now. As much as he wants to take one of Steve’s hands in his and kiss it, he doesn’t. Internally he sighs. Externally he drops his eyes to the floor, turning in his chair to get back to reality. Time to stop deluding himself. “You learn that from YouTube too?”

Steve shakes his head, looking slightly guilty as he moves back to give Bucky space to stand up. “I was just making that up as I went along.”

Holy fuck. Steve’s hands are that amazing when he was just bull-shitting his way through a massage? 

Holy. Fuck. 

_Don’t get turned on._ He pushes out of his chair and heads back to his vegetables, with Steve trailing behind. 

“In that case, you should make stuff up more often.”

He keeps his tone casual and Steve laughs, but on the inside Bucky has to fight the urge to kiss him, to _take_ , to make Steve his, with every step he takes. He swallows hard and tries to push his heart back down into his chest. _Houston, we have a problem._

\--

Days later, Bucky is still thinking about that massage and how much he’d like another one, but also how much he shouldn’t have another one, because he might just lose it and let the cat completely out of the bag. Or maybe he should say, let the pig out of the bag, because he doesn’t have a cat, but he does have a pig. 

Friday afternoon Natasha had texted him to come meet her at the fence for a special delivery—one tiny pink and black pig. Pumbaa had oinked, looked at him with curious, dark eyes, and waggled his curly tail. Seemed friendly enough, but once Bucky put him down in the yard that was all the notice he’d garnered. While Natasha went back inside Thor’s house to get his sleeping crate and a bag with food and toys for “enrichment”, which turned out to be two treat balls and a cardboard box filled with hay, Pumbaa turned his attention completely to his new environment.

“The weather is supposed to be good this weekend, so you should be able to just spread his food pellets around in the grass so he can forage for them,” Natasha informed him with a smile. 

“What’s the box for?”

“You can hide some of the treats in the hay. Pigs like to be challenged.”

New to being a pig care-taker, Bucky asks several more questions about his duties before wishing Natasha a good weekend. She thanks him profusely and gives him a hug over the fence, then waves good-bye and heads back to Thor’s. Bucky looks down at Pumbaa, who is now halfway across the yard, nose down like a blood hound on the scent. 

“It’s just you and me, Buddy,” he announces. 

Pumbaa ignores him but seems quite happy checking things out, so Bucky takes his food and toys back inside the house, unloading everything on his kitchen table, then goes back for the crate and puts it in the kitchen. When he comes back out the second time the little pig hasn’t moved much; he’s still sniffing and rooting around in the grass. He decides to take him over to see Steve, so he bends and picks the little guy up, then strolls over to the gate and unlatches it. Steve’s door, predictably, is open so he lets himself in after rapping on the door frame. 

“Hey Steve! Got something to show you!” 

Tiny appears before him, looking up inquisitively at the strange bundle in Bucky’s arms, and Bucky looks down at him for the first several steps he takes into Steve’s home, showing Pumbaa to him. When he does bring his eyes back up, searching for the resident homeowner, he freezes in his spot. 

Steve isn’t alone. 

Steve himself is standing in his living room, looking surprised to see Bucky. Next to him is a man Bucky has never seen before. He’s tall, taller than Steve by a couple of inches, and handsome, with sparkling green eyes, short, light brown hair, and muscles galore. _Peter._ Got to be. 

Bucky dislikes him immediately.

The man strides up to Bucky with his right hand extended, but takes it back unsurely when he remembers Bucky’s arms are full of pig. “You must be Bucky,” he says in a friendly voice.

“I...am,” Bucky replies, surprised that Peter knows his name. “You must be Peter.” He shifts Pumbaa in his arms. “I’d put him down, but I’m not sure how Tiny will respond.” That’s bullshit. Tiny is a lamb. He just doesn’t particularly want to shake hands with his rival. 

Peter smiles in a disarming way. “Oh, no worries.” His teeth are perfect and white, and it annoys Bucky intensely. He’s too good-looking. He’s too friendly. He’s too…

…then Bucky gets a glimpse of Steve, who looks vaguely uncomfortable with these proceedings, and he forgets his annoyance. 

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” he asks, directing his question to his friend, who responds with a loud, “No!” that makes Bucky feel like he _must_ have been interrupting something.

But Steve comes closer, reaching out to pet Pumbaa, so maybe Bucky wasn’t in the way of anything after all. He smiles as Steve’s hand lands on Pumbaa’s back, stroking along it gently, and he murmurs a soft, “Hello Pumbaa.” 

“Cute pig,” the interloper says. “Steve didn’t mention you had a pet pig.”

This draws Bucky’s eyes away, back to Steve’s guest. “I’m just the sitter,” he explains, then adds on a curious, “So what _did_ he mention?”

There’s another dazzling smile. _Quit it,_ Bucky thinks to himself. 

“Only everything else. He talks about you all the time,” Peter states, striding forward and putting one hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

Bucky wants to smack it right off. Hot flames of jealousy lick their way from his gut to his chest, burning him wherever they go. He can’t stand to look at the hand touching Steve, so he forces his gaze away from it, back to Steve’s face. That doesn’t really help, though, because Steve is looking distinctly uncomfortable now, and what did Bucky do wrong to make him look like that?

Abruptly Steve pulls his hand away from Pumbaa and steps back. “Yeah, we should probably get going.” 

Bucky feels himself frowning and tries to school his face into something more pleasant, or at least neutral. “Okay, I’ll…catch you later.” He nods in Peter’s direction. “Nice to meet you,” he lies. 

Peter gives him one more smile, the asshole, and returns, “Likewise. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” 

_Let’s hope not._ Out loud Bucky says cheerily, “Sure.” He backs away, feeling awkward, looking down at the pig sitting quietly in his arms. Pumbaa seems unaffected by any of this. “Well, I’ll let you get to it.” He turns to flee. “Have a nice night,” he says over his shoulder before making his escape, and hears Peter’s reply as he rushes for the door.

“You too.” 

He doesn’t hear anything from Steve.

\--

It bothers him all night, how awful the meeting was, how Steve had seemed so unhappy. Did Bucky do something to give away how jealous he was? Was that the source of Steve’s displeasure? He has to will himself not to keep sneaking peeks out his front windows to see if there’s a strange car parked in his neighbor’s driveway (there isn’t). Even filling Pumbaa’s treat ball with cranberries and Cheerios and watching him roll it around his kitchen, slurping up treats as they fall out the holes in the ball, doesn’t entertain. 

He can’t stop thinking about Peter, standing there with his hand on Steve. Touching him. What else are they doing tonight? Where else is Peter touching him? It makes him crazy. No one should be fondling Steve that way. The sour feeling churning in his gut lasts all night long. Not even the few beers he knocks back seem to help. 

When his ma calls him and asks how everything is going, he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from spilling his guts. Talking about it won’t change things. Nothing’s going to change how shitty this is, so he’d better just get used to it. He spends a long night, tossing and turning in bed, once again dreaming of Steve. This time he tries to tell Steve about his feelings, but he can no longer be heard or seen by him, as if he’s trapped in an invisible box and can’t get out. He yells and tries to reach for the one he loves, but can never get there. And it hurts him, so much, not being able to be with Steve in any way. The pain of it is unbearable.

When he wakes in a cold sweat, it’s not even the dream that has him shook up. It’s suddenly knowing, deep down, that he’s not just infatuated with Steve; he’s not just hot for his body. This isn’t just some temporary crush, like he’s been pretending it is. He’s in love with Steve. He loves Steve, but he’ll never have his love in return. The realization leaves him feeling empty, drained. In the dark of the night, things seem like they'll never get better.

It’s not a good night.

Next morning, after reflexively checking Steve’s driveway (empty), he lets Pumbaa out into the back yard. Clint was right, the little pig isn’t overly thrilled to be around him, but neither is he nasty. They’re co-existing quite well, and there haven’t even been any accidents in the house yet. He is interested in Bucky most when it’s feeding time, and the rest of the time seems content to root around in his box of hay or outside in the back. 

Bucky’s feeling hung over, both from the alcohol he consumed and the emotional toll of last night. He's still in his sleep pants, a t-shirt and flip flops when he goes back out to check on his charge. Tiny is racing around in the yard next door, so Bucky goes over to the fence to say hello. Nothing like the unconditional love of a dog to lift the spirits. He’s just squatted down to stick his fingers through the wire when he spies Steve out of the corner of his eye, just stepping out the sliding glass door. 

He swallows nervously. He’s _nervous_. Since when is he nervous to see Steve? _Since you met Steve’s boyfriend. Since you realized you’re in love with your best friend._

“Hey,” he calls out across the yard, and Steve walks over to him. He’s got his pajamas on, too, since it’s early. At least he isn’t wearing the same clothes he had on last night. Mental slap. _Stop it_.

“Morning.”

Is it just Bucky, or does Steve seem nervous, too? What’s he got to be concerned about, unless he suspects Bucky’s jealousy? Bucky’s got to play it cool. Can’t let Steve know. The man deserves to be happy. He keeps telling himself that, hoping it will help him get through this. 

Steve is examining him, looking like he doesn't like what he sees. "You okay?" he asks, worry in his blue eyes.

“Fine. How was your date?” Bucky tries to sound nonchalant, but his words sound stilted even to his own ears. _Damn._

Steve’s eyes flick from Bucky’s down to Tiny, standing next to him. “Um, good.” He pats Tiny’s back. “How did you know about Peter?” He avoids looking directly at Bucky.

Tiny licks Bucky’s fingers through the fence and goes trotting off, so Bucky slowly stands back up. “Thor.” 

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Steve clears his throat, and Bucky tries desperately to think of something normal to say. Something that won’t raise any doubt, set off any alarms in Steve’s head. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

 _Fuck. That’s not normal._ He holds his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Steve’s eyes cut back to his. He hesitates, his eyebrows drawing together like the concept is completely foreign. “You’ve never asked before.” 

Steve looks…confused. Not mad, or worse, pitying. Not like he knows Bucky is so full of envy his eyes are about to turn as green as Peter’s. 

Maybe his secret is still safe. Bucky relaxes a fraction and lets his breath out slowly. 

“Oh, you know, just…wondering how long you’ve been seeing him is all.” 

_What. The. Hell. Stop asking questions._ Steve rests his hands on the fence rail. “A couple of months, I guess, here and there.” 

“Oh.” Bucky casts around for something else to say and comes up empty. What he wants to say is, _“I love you and I don’t want you to see anyone else but me.”_ What he wants to say is, _“I can’t stop thinking about you.”_ His chest hurts so much he wants to cry. What made him think he could do this? Pull this off? 

Because Steve deserves a chance to fall in love, that’s why. _You’re doing it for Steve._

What actually comes out of his mouth is, “That’s great.”

 _That’s great? It’s not fucking great. It’s fucking terrible._ No, it’s fucking terrible for Bucky. It’s great for Steve. 

“It is?” Steve sounds like he doesn’t believe the words out of his mouth, either. 

_Sound convincing._ “Yeah, it is. I’m happy for you.”

Knives are cutting into him from every angle as he says it, but he has to say it. He has to. He drops one hand down onto Steve’s wrist, intending to convey his sincerity, but that’s a mistake. Touching Steve…as if he can control his need, his want. Seemingly of its own accord, his thumb strokes across Steve’s bare skin before Bucky withdraws his hand and looks at it, as if it doesn’t belong to him. 

Steve’s eyes are inscrutable, focused on his wrist, on the spot Bucky had been touching him. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, blinking and glancing at Bucky briefly before looking away. “Guess I’ll see you later?” He turns away from the fence, but Bucky can’t bear to let him leave until he knows when he can see him again.

“Still putting the drywall mud on today?”

Steve had already let Bucky off the hook helping in the kitchen that Saturday, since all that was required was to fill in the seams between the drywall pieces with mud and let it dry overnight. According to Steve, that was a one-person job, and Bucky had done so much already, he didn’t want to bother him with it. 

“Yeah, planning to,” Steve answers, looking back at him over his shoulder. 

“Okay. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

Steve does give him a wan smile then. “Call you if I need you.”

He and Tiny disappear into the house, leaving Bucky and Pumbaa alone. Bucky sighs, a terrible sadness sinking into his bones. He’s bone-weary even though it’s only eight in the morning. How is he going to continue keeping up this charade? It’s exhausting. He looks down at the little pig, who has just turned the corner and is ambling down the fence line toward him.

“You’re lucky you’re a pig.”

Pumbaa picks his pink nose up and oinks.


	7. Fucking Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

Chapter Seven

Bucky spends the day pretending he’s not thinking about Steve (as usual): cleaning his shower, doing the laundry, mowing the lawn. Well, he mows the front lawn. He doesn’t have the heart to mow the back yard while Pumbaa is there, since the little guy likes to snuffle around in the long-ish blades of grass so much, and he doesn’t know if pig allergies to flying grass are a thing.

He’s expecting Steve to come over for dinner, though after this morning he’s not sure what kind of reception there will be. He’s full of surprise when Steve turns up with two bulging paper grocery bags in his arms, smiling with encouragement at Bucky.

“What’s all this stuff?” Bucky asks, peering into the bags under Steve’s arms as he bustles into the kitchen.

“You seemed really…down…this morning,” Steve explains, setting the bags down and turning around to face Bucky. Down? Bucky seemed down? Distraught is probably a better descriptor, not that Bucky is going to suggest it. He melts a little with how concerned Steve seems, just because Bucky was depressed earlier. Whatever seemed to be affecting Steve when they met this morning has gone by the wayside. _He’s_ worried about _Bucky’s_ state of mind? It’s incredibly thoughtful, and classic Steve behavior, but as much as he wants to put Steve’s mind at ease, Bucky still can’t let on the reason for his mood.

“I’m fine,” he insists, and Steve makes a face. 

“Not fine,” is his rebuttal, but he waves a hand around dismissively. “Whatever it was bothering you, I figured nacho movie night would fix it.”

A wave of affection sweeps through Bucky. They’d been having nacho movie nights since freshman year of school. Whenever one of them was stressed or just needed cheering up, they would make giant plates of nachos and watch an old favorite movie on TV. It had never failed to brighten their spirits. 

“Aww, thanks, man,” Bucky says sincerely. “Sounds great.”

“Good.” Steve nods and turns back around to his groceries, unloading items as he names them off. “I’ve got nacho chips, cheese, salsa, sour cream, hot peppers, and refried beans.”

“I’ve got hamburger we can fry up.” 

Bucky moves to the fridge to dig out some hamburger as Steve pulls two DVD’s out of the bottom of one bag and holds them up.

“Which one? I brought you a choice.”

Bucky’s head is buried in the fridge at first so he doesn’t see what Steve has on display. “You didn’t have to bring any, we could just look on…” He stops mid-sentence when he stands, package of beef in hand, and his eyes light up. “Ohhh, Steve! That’s perfect!” 

Two of Bucky’s true loves are adventure movies and spy movies. Steve is holding up The Hunt For Red October, which Bucky is sure is on Netflix because he’s watched it about forty times, and Raiders of the Lost Ark, which is definitely NOT on Netflix because Bucky has searched for it about forty times and always come up empty. 

Steve chuckles, seeing which hand Bucky’s eyes are fixated on. “Raiders it is.”

There is an oink from somewhere below them and Steve looks down, then squats down, tossing the movies up onto the counter to free up his hands. “Pumbaa!” The little pig is standing at Steve’s feet, and allows Steve to pet him. As he does so, he looks back up at Bucky. “How’s it going with him here?”

“Actually really well,” Bucky admits. “He’s been no trouble at all.” He selects a pan from one of his cabinets and sets it on the stove to get the hamburger going. “Mostly he pretends I’m not here.”

Laughter bubbles up out of the blond. “Really?”

“Yeah, but Clint warned me pigs don’t take to people right away. Guess that’s normal behavior for them.” Bucky frowns when he sees how still Pumbaa is standing, consenting to have his back scratched. 

“Except for now. He doesn’t let me do that.”

“No?” Steve’s eyes lower back to his charge, who is standing and preening at the attention he is receiving. “He seems to like it.”

“Yeah, he does,” Bucky agrees, shrugging his shoulders before tearing into the beef package. He smiles to himself as he plunks the raw meat down in the pan, discards the empty packaging into the garbage can and washes his hands. This conversation is about a hundred times more comfortable than the one they had this morning. Obviously the key is not to talk about any boyfriends or relationships.

_Keep that in mind_ , he tells himself. All those years of not discussing their love lives? Clearly the right choice. He would prefer not ever being in the same room with Steve’s boyfriend ever again, but that may be beyond his control. For now, though, he plans on keeping the topic of conversation steered firmly away from that subject completely. 

As soon as they have their plates loaded down with nachos, they hit the couch and start the movie. He and Steve sit next to each other on the sectional, feet up on the coffee table; Pumbaa initially sits on the floor nearby, but a half hour later, once the nachos are consumed and the dirty plates disposed of, Pumbaa is on the couch. Next to _Steve_. What’s up with that? Bucky looks around him to observe the black and pink lump snoozing happily next to Steve’s thigh, and shrugs. Guess he’d be happy too, if he could snuggle up next to Steve like that.

Two hours later and all three are sound asleep on the couch together. Rough day. Bucky is the first to wake, coming to himself slowly. He is slumped toward the man next to him, with the back of his head resting on the top of the couch. Steve’s hair tickles his chin because he is slumped toward Bucky as well, with his head on Bucky’s shoulder. When Bucky is roused he hears the TV still playing in the background and Steve’s even, slow breaths next to him.

Not wanting to wake him just yet, he doesn’t move a single muscle. One of his arms is trapped between the couch and Steve’s body. The other hand is out of the danger zone, resting on his own leg. Steve’s face is turned in toward him, though they’re so close together all Bucky can really see is his hair, short and spiky and blond. It’s soft against his chin and neck, and when he breathes he takes in nothing but _Steve_. It’s marvelous. 

He’s just marveling at the marvelousness of it when it gets even MORE marvelous. Steve shifts in his sleep, snuggling in deeper against Bucky’s side, and his nose and lips come into direct contact with Bucky’s neck. Whispers of air caress his exposed skin as Steve breathes deeply. Letting his eyes drift shut, Bucky wonders if it’s wrong to be enjoying this. Should he wake Steve up? Fake a cough or sneeze? 

Probably. Maybe. Whatever. He’s not breaking any laws here. They just fell asleep, that’s all. So what if Steve’s lips are so soft they’re like satin against his skin? So what if he wants to reach up and cup Steve’s face in his hand to pull him in for a kiss? He’s not going to actually _do it_ , so where’s the harm in just enjoying an innocent touch for one damn minute? 

Bucky’s just managed to convince himself that this is all fine and dandy when Steve _moves._ Still not a waking movement, purposeful movement. More like a reflexive, half-asleep movement. He _nuzzles_ Bucky’s skin, rubbing his nose and one cheek along the crook of Bucky’s neck, causing Bucky to immediately tense. 

Not because he doesn’t like it, but because he does. Too much. He wants more but knows he can’t have it. And Steve…he’s not really awake yet. His lips gently touch Bucky’s skin again; not kissing him exactly, just brushing against him, but it makes Bucky’s heart start to race and blood thrum through his veins. Steve’s _mouth_ is on his neck, and he’s going to fucking explode with pleasure from it. Bucky’s whole body is now on high alert and tingling with electricity, including his dick, which is twitching happily in his pants.

Steve’s head shifts again; this time he nuzzles him with his nose and lips, and the self-control it requires for Bucky to sit still, without making a sound, without taking Steve’s face in his hands and kissing the shit out of him, is off the charts exponentially. Bucky _wants it_ so badly it hurts. And wanting it but not being able to do anything about it is even worse. Bucky breathes shallowly, holding in a groan. His mouth starts to water as he concentrates on where Steve’s mouth is right now and approximately how close their mouths are to each other. It’s a lot to get a handle on, and he’s not doing so well.

But does Steve know who he’s touching? Does he even know where he is? Bucky knows all too well that disorienting feeling when you are waking from a dream. For all he knows, Steve thinks Bucky is actually his boyfriend, Peter. He doesn’t particularly want to think about that possibility, though, and pushes the thought away. He can’t allow this to go on much longer or he’ll either start moaning out loud, or do something else he’ll live to regret; he’s just considering his options of what to do here when the blond head next to his starts violently.

Steve is _awake_ , and he sits up confusedly, looking at Bucky through half-lidded eyes. Bucky does the only thing he can do—pretend he just woke up as well. He blinks, fakes a yawn and stretches his arms up over his head.

“Did we all fall asleep?” he queries in what he hopes passes for an innocent tone, and Steve nods. 

There is a flicker of something behind his eyes, then he seems to relax. “Yeah, I guess we did,” he agrees, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. 

The look on his face is part confusion, part…shyness? Embarrassment? Does he realize what he was doing before he woke? A vague feeling of guilt passes over Bucky for allowing it to go that far. He’s partially to blame here for Steve’s discomfort, and he wants to alleviate it. 

He shifts his gaze to the television, where the movie they had playing is pretty much over. “Aw, we missed the second best part.”

“When he goes under the truck?” Steve’s head swivels around as well, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief as Steve’s tone normalizes, the danger apparently passing. 

Bucky wills his cock to settle back down. He hopes Steve is none the wiser that A) he was accidentally nuzzling Bucky’s neck, B) that Bucky was letting him, and C) that Bucky became aroused while he was letting him. 

“ ‘Course,” he says carelessly. Obviously, the first best part is the escape from the cave at the beginning of the film. “Hey Pumbaa,” he adds, “Gotta go out?”

“Is he really house-trained?” Steve stands and Pumbaa jumps down from the spot he’d been hogging next to him the whole time, the traitor.

“Haven’t had any accidents yet,” Bucky answers, pleased for two reasons. One, that for once his cock obeyed the command from his brain and has not popped up to become an ill-timed boner, and two, that Pumbaa has been so well-behaved during his time with Bucky. He really hadn’t been expecting much, either from his dick or from Pumbaa, despite Natasha’s assurances to the contrary on that second point.

“I’ll go out with you,” Steve announces, following Pumbaa and Bucky to the door.

“Okay then,” Bucky says agreeably. “Think you’ll do any sanding tomorrow?”

He pulls open his back door and all three head out into the darkness. A motion sensor light flicks on, bathing them in dim, yellowish light.

“Depends how long that shit takes to dry,” Steve tells him as he takes a few steps into the grass, then turns back to face him. Pumbaa strolls past, unconcerned, nose planted to the ground. “I’ll let you know.”

Bucky nods. “Thanks for the nachos and the movie, even though we slept through half of it.” _And for the nuzzles_. 

Steve smiles back at him. “Anytime, Buck. Feel better.”

“I do.”

That part is sincere. He feels a _lot_ better than he did last night, or that morning, and he’s not talking about the horny stuff. Just knowing Steve is always there for him, no matter what else is going on—that’s a good feeling. The best feeling. He watches him pass through the gate and walk back to his own door, and love swells in his chest more than ever. 

Unrequited love. _Fucking feelings._ With that cheery thought, he turns and whistles for Pumbaa, who of course ignores him, so he heads back inside his own house alone. 

\--

It’s a lazy Sunday morning. Bucky wakes somewhere between eight and nine, takes his time with breakfast and a shower, and answers a bunch of texts from his family members he’d been putting off. He’s still got his phone in hand when a text from Steve pops up. 

_I need you! Can you come over?_

He figures Steve is probably getting ready to start sanding the drywall mud; he answers back with a quick, _Be right there_ , and puts on his shoes. Next he grabs a cup full of Pumbaa’s food to throw around in the back yard. That way the little guy will be quite well occupied while he pops next door to check up on his neighbor. 

Pumbaa willingly comes outside with him and oinks once in glee when Bucky sprays his food all over the grass. Bucky chuckles as he crosses into Steve’s yard, where Tiny is on patrol. After a few pets and rubs, he is allowed to enter Steve’s home, where he expects to find him prepping the kitchen. They had gotten a gigantic roll of plastic sheeting to cover the doorways and keep the dust contained to the kitchen area, after watching a YouTube video explaining how the fine, white dust would get _everywhere_ if that precaution wasn’t taken. He figures Steve will be hanging that up when he comes in.

He slides the glass door open and steps in, with Tiny behind him. There is the frenetic sound of sanding already going on—he can hear sandpaper being rubbed on a wall not far away, but as he enters the dining room his view into the kitchen is blocked by a huge piece of the Visqueen wrap. It’s translucent but not quite clear, so he can see his friend’s bulky outline on the other side.

“Steve?” he calls out uncertainly, and the sound of sanding stops right away.

“Bucky!” 

The voice is desperation mixed with relief. The dark, blocky shape gets bigger as it approaches the plastic wrap, then drops to the floor. Steve reaches down and lifts the wrap, then ducks underneath to join Bucky on the other side. His first view of his neighbor makes Bucky laugh out loud, then bite his tongue. The man is completely covered, head to toe, in white dust. He can hardly even see Steve’s face behind his safety goggles and breathing mask. If Steve shook his head, it would create a fog of white dust in the air around him.

“Steve, what the…?” he giggles again. “You look like you rolled in flour. Or cocaine.”

“Ha.” Steve hardly even pauses to acknowledge that excellent joke. “Buck, this stuff is horrible.” He gestures to the kitchen behind him, puts his goggles on his forehead and pulls his mask down to below his chin, revealing the only parts of his body where the skin is still skin-colored. “Every time I sand it down flat, it’s suddenly TOO flat, and I can see the seam. It’s fucking _awful_. I’ve already got to put more mud on in places I should have been done with. I feel like I haven’t made any progress at all.”

“Well, let me come in there with you and see what it looks like.”

“Alright.” 

Steve lifts the flap and lets Bucky duck down and crawl through first. As soon as he’s cleared the plastic barrier, Bucky breathes in fine, white particles, suspended in the air all around him. It looks like it’s been snowing in there. He coughs and Steve makes a distressed noise, then presses a mask to his face. 

“Sorry, should have put that on you first!” he exclaims in a muffled voice, as he has shifted his own mask down over his face again, and lets go of Bucky’s only when he takes over holding it over his nose and mouth. 

“Oh my God, Steve, how long have you been at this?” 

Looking around, it doesn’t appear at all like Steve has just gotten started. The air is thick with dust and he can see several spots where Steve has sanded down the drywall mud. And several spots where the seam between boards is visible again, just as he had complained. 

“A few hours.”

“A few hours!” Bucky repeats, aghast. That would mean Steve had gotten up at the crack of dawn.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get an early start, and…”

Bucky hastily interrupts him. “Have you been breathing this stuff in all morning?”

Steve looks insulted. “I’ve been wearing a mask.”

“That’s not enough!” Bucky looks around at the poor air quality. There’s no way a mask is filtering all of this out. “We need to open a window and get a box fan in here to suck this stuff out.”

“I don’t have a box fan.”

“Well I do!” Bucky gestures to the large flap of Visqueen by the dining room. “Come on, I’ll get the fan. You tape this stuff down to the floor so it stays in place.”

“Alright.”

Bucky returns home as quickly as he can to retrieve his box fan. When he gets back, Steve has the far side of the kitchen taped down and is working on the dining room side, leaving a spot open just so they can get in and out. Bucky pushes the fan under the plastic wrap and follows behind it, with Steve bringing up the rear. 

They get the fan safely installed in the window and turn it on. The suck of air pressure pulls the plastic wrap in toward them like sails of a ship filling with wind, but the tape holds.

“Now you’ve gotta let this run the whole time when we’re sanding, okay?” 

Steve nods at him. “Thanks Buck.”

“No problem.” He shifts his attention to the drywall mud and examines it, trying to remember how it appeared on the videos they watched. “Let me try it for a minute.” 

He takes the sandpaper Steve had been using and experimentally works on a spot. Though he feels like he’s sanding vigorously, after a minute it hardly looks like he’s made a dent. Already he feels sweaty with his expended effort. He looks at the sandpaper in his hand, just to make sure it’s not extra fine. _Nope._ Course. Huh. He goes at it for another minute, and starts to see what Steve means. This shit is a pain in the ASS. He stops and examines the wall. 

“Maybe it just needs to be feathered out wider, farther away from the seams?”

“But then that’s more to sand down,” Steve complains, drawing his eyebrows together under his goggles. 

“Patience, young grasshopper,” Bucky jokes. “Remember on the video, they piled mud on, like a foot out from either side of the seam so the gradient was more gradual.”

“That means I’ve gotta stop sanding, wait for the air to clear, and put more mud on everywhere.” 

It’s hard to see Steve’s expression with the goggles and mask in place, but his tone is clearly one of disappointment. 

“Sorry, bud.”

There is a heavy sigh. “Not your fault,” Steve huffs, hands on his hips. “Let’s go then.”

Crossing the room, he drops to all fours and crawls under the billowing plastic wrap, leaving Bucky behind. He doesn’t mind, though, because it gives him an excellent view of Steve’s ass, full and perky in his worn jeans. _You pig,_ he thinks to himself as he exits the kitchen as well and stands on the fresh air side. 

He removes his mask and Steve does the same, still covered in white dust everywhere else. There was something he was going to ask him, but can’t quite put his finger on it now. “You gonna hit the shower then?” he asks, assuming Steve will want to get cleaned up so he doesn’t track that dust all over the house while he waits for the room to clear. 

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll take a nap. Who knows how long that dust will take to clear.”

A light bulb goes off over Bucky’s head. That was it. “Why couldn’t you sleep last night?”

“Oh, you know,” Steve answers vaguely. “Just one of those nights.”

As the recipient of several bad night’s sleep lately, Bucky is very well acquainted with that phenomenon, but still wonders what bee got into Steve’s bonnet. Trouble in paradise? Not going well with the boyfriend? Or was he thinking about what happened at Bucky’s last night? Either way he can’t ask, so he clamps his mouth shut before he can say something to get himself into trouble. He nods and inches towards the back door. 

“Tell me when you’re ready to start and I’ll come help you,” he promises.

“Yeah. Don’t forget your razor blade and straw.”

Lifting his eyebrows, Bucky looks at his neighbor with a question mark in his eyes. Razor blade?

Steve raises his arms, looking down at himself and his filthy appearance. “For the cocaine?” he finishes the joke, the one Bucky should have gotten but didn’t because he was still thinking about Steve’s fine ass, and Steve not sleeping, and what the two of them could do together when they’re in bed but not sleeping. Now he’s _really_ got to go. 

“Oh. Right. Ha!” 

Steve’s looking at him like he thinks Bucky’s gone mental. “Later then.”

“Yeah, later.”

Bucky leaves, collects his pig from the back yard, and goes back inside. He’s a little sweaty and a lot dusty himself, and though he’s already had one shower today, maybe another wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if he picks up his train of thought again about Steve’s superior ass. 

Bucky bites his bottom lip, mind already wandering to other parts of Steve’s anatomy. Shower it is.


	8. Pumbaa and the Boxer Shorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Spring to my fellow Northern hemisphere dwellers! It's only 38 degrees at the mo', but I've seen Robins about, and that's always a good sign here in the Midwest. :-)

Chapter Eight

Sunday evening Natasha and Clint swing by on their way home to pick up Pumbaa, and Bucky is almost sorry to see him go. Almost. He had to admit, it was kind of nice to have someone around to talk to, and his last conversation with the little pig had been pretty productive. After a day and a half, his houseguest had apparently decided that Bucky was an okay guy and had at least acknowledged his presence when Bucky came into the room. 

“Pumbaa, I’ve gotta get something for Steve when his kitchen is all done. What do you think is a good kitchen renovation present?”

Pumbaa, who at the time had been curled up in his blanket napping, picked up his head when he heard Bucky’s voice and oinked once, then put his head back down. Bucky stood in the middle of his living room, hands on hips. 

“That’s not helpful,” he said, frowning at the pink and black piglet. “What about some sort of kitchen gadget? Steve loves gadgets.”

Lifting his snout, Pumbaa sniffed the air with his black eyes bright with interest, just in case Bucky had some food to share. 

Bucky nodded in understanding. “Yeah, just google kitchen gadgets? That’s a great idea.”

Pulling out his cell phone, he had spent the next couple of minutes scrolling down a list of most popular appliance and kitchen helpers, eventually stopping and examining an Instant Pot. He chewed his lip thoughtfully and looked back at Pumbaa. 

“He was talking about these just the other day. I don’t know what the fuck they do, but I hear they’re quite popular.”

As if to tell him the matter had been settled, Pumbaa had turned and burrowed deeper into his blanket, with only his curly tail sticking out from underneath it. 

“You’re right, Steve enjoys trying out new cooking methods. Instant Pot it is,” Bucky had declared. “Thanks, Pumbaa.” 

The curly tail had wiggled just a bit, which Bucky took as a positive sign for the development of their relationship. By the time Natasha and Clint arrived to take back their charge, he was harboring feelings for the tiny pet that could easily be described as affection. Who knew?

“How’s he been for you?” Natasha wants to know right away, plying him with questions as soon as Bucky answers the door. 

“He’s been fine,” he answers truthfully, since he really has no complaints about his first experience pig-sitting.

“Did he even look at you twice?” Clint asks jokingly, though that really wasn’t far off the mark, at least at first. 

“I’ll admit, he pretty much ignored my existence up until this morning,” Bucky says agreeably, looking down at Natasha, now kneeling on the floor to give her pet some love. Pumbaa had made a bee-line for her as soon as he heard her voice at the door, and was now standing in front of her, wiggling. Natasha scratches his back, making little cooing noises at him, which makes him wiggle even harder. 

“He wouldn’t let me do that,” Bucky does admit grudgingly. “Only Steve.”

Clint laughs. “Steve lets you rub his back? Cozy.”

“What?” Bucky panics slightly, throat closing in. “No, I didn’t mean…” Bucky starts to say, trailing off when he sees their faces. “That was a joke.”

“Of course it was a joke,” Clint states, eyeing Bucky like just sprouted wings. Natasha is examining him like he’s a dog that’s been brought into the clinic with a mysterious ailment.

“Ha ha. Ha.” Bucky shifts in place. Geez. Smooth, Barnes. He avoids looking at Natasha entirely and gets back to the subject at hand. “Anyway, he was no trouble at all.” He points at the kitchen. “I’ll grab his stuff for you.” He thinks he’s making his escape, but Clint follows him.

“I’ll come with, and grab the little stuff. You carry the crate,” Clint teases, smiling. As soon as they exit the room, however, he looks at Bucky again. “You feeling alright, man?”

“Yeah, fine,” Bucky scoffs, deliberately picking up the bag of Pumbaa’s toys and food and leaving the crate for Clint, who squats and picks it up, grunting exaggeratedly. The thing weighs maybe fifteen pounds. Bucky laughs and gestures with his head toward the living room. “How was the weekend?” 

“Oh, it was great.” Clint starts back with his load. “See you tomorrow?” 

“As always.”

\--

Tomorrow arrives and Bucky is super pumped, despite the fact that it’s Monday, because he woke up after having a fantastic sex dream involving Steve. He even had enough time to jerk off, hard and fast, with dream images of naked Steve still in his head, finishing just before his alarm went off. How’s that for timing? And that was after spilling himself all over his shower wall yesterday, an episode also fueled by thoughts of Steve and filled with moans of pleasure as he worked himself over with his hand. 

He’s in such a good mood he almost doesn’t notice the coughing going on in the car next to him. It’s slight and though Steve denies feeling poorly, blaming it on a “tickle” in his throat, Bucky hears it repeat enough times on the way to work for it to catch his attention. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he presses, and Steve nods vigorously. 

“I’m fine, Buck, it’s nothing. Going straight to the restaurant tonight, right?” 

Steve’s eyebrows are elevated in uncertainty, so Bucky nods back. “Yep.” 

They are going to a local sports bar after work with Clint and Sam. Steve is driving himself and Bucky to work, but Bucky will hitch a ride to the restaurant with his other two co-workers so Steve doesn’t have to try and find a place to park at his office building and wait for him. 

After a normal, boring Monday, Bucky can’t wait to get out of the office and see the object of his desire again. He hadn’t thought about it while working, (after all, Steve said it was nothing) but when they meet at the sports bar Steve is still coughing. If anything, it’s gotten worse. 

“You coming down with something?” he questions, and Steve still waves him off as they sit down at a round, dark-stained wood table and are handed menus by a waitress. 

“Maybe just a cold.” He won’t let Bucky get anything else out of him on the subject, engaging Clint and Sam in conversation about the start of hockey season instead. 

Bucky lets it go, though his concern level rises a couple of notches. Steve doesn’t get sick, despite his reported history of being sick frequently as a child. _And he’s a grown man who can take care of himself_ , or at least that’s what Bucky consoles himself with. Conversation continues, their food arrives, and they happily watch whatever games are on the flat-screen televisions placed on the walls around them. Bucky is having a pretty good time until Clint opens his big, fat mouth and brings up the one subject Bucky doesn’t want to talk about. 

“So, Nat wants to know how things are going with Peter.” 

Bucky takes a giant bite out of his burger and looks at Steve, who looks like the dentist just told him he needs a root canal. That’s promising. Why does Steve look so uncomfortable with a simple question? 

“Um, he’s nice,” Steve says noncommittally, shrugging his shoulders around the burger he’s holding in both hands. 

Bucky chews aggressively, staring at Steve but trying not to _look_ like he’s staring at Steve. 

“Nice?” Clint repeats, looking from Sam and Bucky back to Steve. “Come on, man, she’s relentless. You gotta give me something more than that.” 

Taking a bite of his own burger and staring somewhere over Clint’s head, Steve stays silent for the moment, prompting a sigh from him. 

“Look, man, you don’t have to tell me you’re soul mates or any sappy shit like that, just… are you gonna keep seeing him? She feels a sense of responsibility here since she fixed you up, and she’s been bugging the shit out me wanting to know.”

Stomach churning, Bucky puts his burger down and waits for the answer to that question, gripping his chair seat with both hands. He wants to hear it…and doesn’t want to hear it. What if Steve says yes? What if he says _no?_ When he glances around the table he is surprised to find Sam’s eyes on him, instead of on Steve; his attention is so riveted to Bucky he isn’t even ribbing Steve right along with Clint, like usual. They lock gazes for an instant, but when Steve starts to speak both pair of eyes cut back to him.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Bucky’s face suddenly feels hot and his stomach drops. Disappointment presses heavily against his chest. He needs to get out of there. Abruptly he stands, then realizes when all eyes land on him how rude that must have seemed. 

“Uh, bathroom. Gotta go.” Hooking his thumb over his shoulder, he points it in the general direction of the bathrooms and takes off, hoping that wasn’t too suspicious.

Once inside the restroom, a small but two stall design, he doesn’t even bother going anywhere except to stand in front of the white porcelain sinks. Staring into the mirror, he sees his own destroyed face. Steve is going to keep seeing Peter. Peter and Steve are a couple. Peter is Steve’s boyfriend. Bucky feels worse and worse with each description that cycles through his head. Icy fingers of dread clutch at his gut. That hamburger is sitting in his stomach like a lead weight. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

He’s still standing there when the door swings open with a metallic squeak and Sam strolls in. He also doesn’t go to a stall, coming to stand next to Bucky at the sinks. Bucky hardly has any time to school his face into something that doesn’t look like pure misery when Sam demands, “What is going on with you?”

Bucky is about to say “Nothing,” when Sam adds, “And don’t fucking lie.” 

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut and he presses his lips together, eyeing Sam indirectly through the mirror. His dark-skinned friend crosses his arms in front of his chest and watches him in the mirror as well, waiting for an answer Bucky doesn’t feel capable of sharing. Sam looks cross at first that Bucky isn’t talking…then his face changes. It softens and he turns to look at Bucky directly. 

“Holy shit,” he says softly. “You’re in love with him.”

“No I’m not,” Bucky says, loudly and reflexively, but it’s too late. Sam has already seen his face; the face that as good as admitted he was totally, completely, spell-bindingly in love with Steve. 

“The fuck you aren’t.”

Bucky sees his own face fall in the mirror and swivels his head, looking at Sam to feel him out. There’s no judgment there, just surprise. Well, no point denying it now, and as long as Sam knows the truth, maybe he can dispense some much needed advice. Bucky’s mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. 

“I don’t know what to do, Sam,” he admits plaintively, shaking his head. 

“He doesn’t know?” 

“Of course he doesn’t know, I can’t tell him,” Bucky claims, gesturing outside the door. 

Sam’s chin drops and he leans against the sink countertop. “But what if he has those feelings, too?”

With a grimace, Bucky shakes his head. “You just heard him say he wants to keep seeing Peter, didn’t you?”

“I heard a lackluster response at best. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings for you,” Sam insists, shrugging. 

“Yes, that’s kind of exactly what that means.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam says stubbornly. “You two are as close as any people I know on this entire planet. You really think he doesn’t feel something for you?”

Exasperated, Bucky sighs. “He has friendly feelings for me, Sam. He’s my best _friend_.” He puts the emphasis heavily on the _friend_ part to spell it out for him. 

Undeterred, Sam goes on. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky passes a hand over his eyes. “Since we started working on the kitchen.”

“Dude.”

 _“Dude.”_ Bucky spits back tartly and points in Steve’s direction, or where he imagines Steve is sitting at their table, anyway. “I can’t take this from him. I can’t take away his chance for happiness!”

“What if you’re his chance for happiness?”

Maybe this Sam-giving-advice idea was a bad one. “We just covered this, Sam. He’s dating Peter, not me!”

Sam crosses his arms tightly over his chest again. “I think you’re making a mistake. He needs to know.”

He’s giving Bucky that look, the look that says Bucky is either being stupid or stubborn, or both, and it gets to him a little. Raising his voice slightly, Bucky hisses, “I can’t tell him—”

And stops, because just as the words “tell him” come out of his mouth, the door swings open again on its squeaky hinges and Steve steps in, looking surprised to see them both standing there. 

“Tell who what?” he asks brightly, and looks from Sam to Bucky, curiosity written across his stupidly handsome face. 

Bucky freezes. Like, totally fucking freezes, his mind completely blank. He knows if Steve gets in more than a casual glance at him, he’ll know something is up, but for the life of him he can’t think of a single thing to say to draw him off. His only chance is if—

“Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell Clint that Pumbaa ate his shorts.”

“Pumbaa ate his shorts?”

Bucky looks from Steve to Sam and back to Steve. Steve’s got his hands shoved into his back pockets, looking like he’s really thinking about this, like the question is actually running through his head, _do pigs eat clothing?_ Bucky deems it highly unlikely Steve is going to fall for this answer, but Sam is all in.

“Yeah, a pair of boxers. Chewed ‘em all up.”

Sam is nodding knowingly, and damn if he doesn’t look convincing. Steve turns to Bucky. “So why can’t you just tell him? I’m sure he’d buy you some new ones.”

Good question, Steve. Why not just replace the pretend boxers that didn’t actually get chewed up? Come on, Bucky, think. 

“They were…sentimental.”

“Sentimental.” Steve repeats the word like he’s trying it out for the first time. “You own boxers that have sentimental value?”

Bucky shuffles his feet. “Not anymore I don’t.”

Sam snickers. His lips are pressed together like he can barely contain himself, and when Bucky looks from one man to the other, he can see the blond is trying not to smile, too. 

“Shut up, both of you,” Bucky says sarcastically, relieved to hear their laughter, and his tension melts away. Steve bought it. Whew!

“Buck,” Steve teases, “I had no idea.”

“Whatever,” Bucky replies with pretend annoyance. “I’ll see you back out there,” he adds, stepping toward the door. 

“Yeah,” Sam chips in. “We’re done here.”

Sam follows him back out, while Steve goes in to use the facilities for their intended purpose. 

As soon as the door closes behind them, Sam slaps him on the shoulder. “Sentimental?” 

Bucky smacks him back. “Boxers? Really? You couldn’t have said a shirt?”

“It was the first thing I thought of!” Sam whines. “At least I didn’t freeze up!”

“I didn’t freeze!” he whispers, giving Sam a half smile. “I was thinking slowly.”

Sam, now directly next to him, elbows him gently. “Keep thinking about it, yeah? What I said, I mean.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky lies. He’s not going to change his mind, so why bother expending any more thought on it? He has to give Steve the freedom, the opportunity to find the one for him, but he placates Sam anyway. “Don’t…don’t tell anyone else, okay?”

Sam eyeballs him but nods. The rest of the evening passes on well, except for the fact that Steve’s cough gets steadily worse. On the way home in the car, Bucky would swear he’s coughing up little bits of lung. 

“You’re calling in sick tomorrow, right?” he prods after a nasty bout of hacking, and Steve actually doesn’t fight him on it, which tells Bucky the man feels worse even than he sounds. 

“Yeah, maybe some rest isn’t a bad idea.”

“It’s a fantastic idea. Call in. I’ll drive myself in tomorrow morning.”

“Alright.”

\--

Next morning Bucky doesn’t even bother texting and waking Steve. He rather hopes Steve already called in last night and is still in bed this morning. He does text around lunchtime to ask how he’s feeling. Steve doesn’t text back. _Okay, so he’s sleeping. You wanted him to rest,_ he thinks, only freaking out slightly. By mid-afternoon when Steve still hasn’t answered his texts, Bucky starts to fully freak out. 

“What if he’s passed out?” he demands of Clint and Sam, in the middle of their planning meeting. 

“Why would he pass out from a cold?” Sam wants to know.

“He’s probably sleeping, dumbass,” Clint maintains, but Bucky just shakes his head.

“Something weird is going on. Steve isn’t like that. He _always_ answers my texts.”

“Overreacting much?” Clint razzes, but Bucky isn’t convinced. 

At the end of the work day, he can hardly wait to get out of there and get home to check on Steve. He parks his car and hops out, not even bothering to go into his own house first. He’s still in his shirtsleeves and tie when he passes through the gate and heads for his back door. _Please let it be open._ The sliding glass door glides open at his touch and he practically runs in, half expecting to find Steve unconscious on the floor. 

“Steve?” he calls out. No Tiny to greet him. The house is eerily quiet at first, then he hears it. A faint cough, coming from the direction of the bedrooms. Bucky hits the hallway like there’s a bomb ticking somewhere, ready to detonate at a moment’s notice, and careens to a stop when he reaches the open door to Steve’s bedroom. Tiny appears in front of him, tail wagging, as if to say “in here!”

The shades are drawn, throwing the room into partial shadow. Steve is lying on his bed, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. The covers look hastily thrown to the bottom of the bed. 

“Steve?” Bucky calls his name again as he rushes in and approaches the bed. Steve’s eyelids flutter open and he turns his head, appearing groggy. Maybe he _was_ just asleep, and Bucky was worried for nothing? Then he speaks, and Bucky’s alarm intensifies. 

“Buck?” It’s hardly a gurgle, with a loud wheeze accompanying it. 

His cheeks are splotchy red, lips faintly blue in color and when Bucky puts his hand on his forehead he gasps out loud. 

“Steve, you’re burning up!”

Steve coughs and sits up weakly. The cough sounds horrid and there are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there a day or two ago. He hasn’t been resting much, after all. 

“I couldn’t decide if I was hot or cold,” he says, breathing heavily with the effort of just sitting up. “God, my chest hurts.”

He rubs a hand over his chest and coughs again, and Bucky’s mind is made up. Fever, wheezing, coughing. 

“You’re coming with me to the ER. Right now,” he calmly informs him.

“Nooooooooo,” Steve whines, his bed-head hair sticking up all over, but Bucky isn’t taking no for an answer. 

“Yes,” he replies. “You could have pneumonia. Now let’s get you dressed.” 

“Don’t wanna go,” Steve says testily, but Bucky ignores that. He pushes off the bed and goes to Steve’s dresser, opening a couple of drawers to pull out a fresh shirt and pair of sweat pants. 

“Tough nuts, we’re going anyway,” he answers in a brusque voice, and tosses the clothes down on the bed. “You need a nice, big shot of Penicillin, and the doctor’s office will be closed already.”

“I can wait till tomorrow,” Steve argues, but only half-heartedly, so Bucky knows he’s right. 

“Nope. Can’t wait. I’ll drive.”

Steve looks at the clothes on the bed next to him, then at Bucky. Finally he grunts and throws his legs down over the side of the bed. “Alright. Can you let Tiny out before we go?”

“Absolutely.” 

Bucky gets Tiny squared away with dinner and a trip outside, giving Steve time to change his clothes and get some shoes on. He gets Steve loaded into the passenger seat of his car and off they go. On the way, he wonders if Steve is going to call Peter and tell him what’s going on, but when he turns and looks to his right, Steve doesn’t even have his eyes open. His mouth, on the other hand, has dropped slightly down. If not for his labored breathing, Bucky might have thought he was dead. 

They arrive at the local hospital and get a decent parking spot, so Steve doesn’t have to walk far. It must be a slow night, because the registration process only takes about twenty minutes and then Steve is put into a tiny examining room. He immediately lies down on the examining table and curls in on himself, face pinched, breathing heavily, and Bucky’s heart hurts. Seeing Steve in pain is a whole other level of agony he didn’t want to experience. He sits in the chair down by his feet, one knee jiggling with nervous energy, waiting for the doctor to come in. 

They’ve been waiting like that in silence for maybe ten minutes when Bucky hears Steve call out his name. It’s just a hoarse whisper, but audible. 

“Buck?” 

Bucky sits up straighter and leans toward Steve so he can see his face past his broad shoulder. Even when Steve is curled up in a fetal position, his shoulders look big. 

“I’m here.”

“Bucky…thank you. For being here.” 

Steve’s blue eyes, shiny with fever, are on him briefly before they close again. 

“Anytime, buddy. Just hang on.”

\--

One examination and one chest x-ray later and the diagnosis of severe pneumonia is delivered. The emergency doc, a tall, dark-haired man in his early forties, prescribes oral antibiotics and a fever reducer, plus gives Steve that shot of Penicillin Bucky had promised. All of that comes as no surprise to Bucky. What does come as a surprise is the doctor’s reticence to let Steve leave that night. 

“Even given your history of respiratory illnesses as a child, the swift onset and severity of symptoms here is worrying. I’d prefer keeping you overnight for observation.”

Steve, still up on the examining table and now in a semi-reclining position, scowls darkly at the man. “You are not admitting me,” he wheezes. “The meds will work.”

Pursing his lips, the doctor appears to consider this for a moment. “Do you have any family members at home who can keep a close eye on you for the next twenty-four hours?”

“No.”

“I can watch him.” 

Steve and the doctor both look at Bucky at the same time. 

“Bucky, you have to work tomorrow.”

“I can watch him,” Bucky repeats firmly, focusing on the professional in the room. “What am I watching for?”

“A large portion of the lung tissue is inflamed. His fever and breathing need close observation, and he’s in no shape to self-monitor.” The doctor turns to Steve at this point. “If there’s no improvement within a twenty-four hour window, I want you on a nebulizer.” 

“Arrrrrrrrrgghhh,” Steve groans and lets his head fall back on the exam table. “I hate nebulizers.”

The ER doc’s eyebrows lift and the corner of his mouth quirks upward by a hair. “Then let’s hope the antibiotics work quickly.”

Promising to get Steve’s discharge instructions and prescriptions ready, the doc again steps out of the room. Bucky looks at Steve. Steve looks at Bucky. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know. What’s a nebulizer?”

\--

By the time Bucky gets Steve back home and in his own bed again it’s approaching eight-thirty in the evening, and Bucky is ravenous. He would have voluntarily gone hungry, but he has to go to the pharmacy to pick up the antibiotic prescription anyway, and takes advantage of that. As hard as it is to leave his friend alone, he’s got no other choice. He sets up Steve in his room with a bunch of pillows behind his back to make his breathing easier and leaves him with his cell phone handy, just in case he needs anything. He promises to be back soon and heads out the door. 

After a quick trip in and out of the pharmacy he runs to a drive-through for a bite to eat, wolfing down a Big Mac and fries in record time. While he’s sitting at a red light he leaves a message for his boss, calling in sick to work for tomorrow, then calls Steve to make sure he’s not unconscious or delirious with fever. 

“Buck, I’m fine. Don’t worry so much.” Steve’s voice sounds small over the phone, like the words require a lot of exertion, and again Bucky feels something tugging at his heart strings. 

“I’ll be back in ten. You need anything else?”

“No, I’m okay.”

Racing back, Bucky parks his car in his driveway and goes to Steve’s front door. He’d taken his house key with him so he could let himself back in without having to go around to the back door a second time. He closes the door softly behind himself in case Steve is sleeping and heads down the hall, but stops when he hears Steve’s voice as he speaks to someone. 

“Look, I’m really tired and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

There is a moment of silence as someone on the other end of the conversation says something, then Steve’s voice again. 

“Okay. Good night, Peter.”

Bucky tenses. Steve was talking to Peter. Did Peter call him? Or vice versa? Didn't want to talk about what? What else was said? He shakes his head. It’s none of his damn business what else was said. He resumes his trip to Steve’s door and turns the corner. Tiny is sitting down at the bottom of the bed and Steve has the small TV across the room turned on like he was watching something, but the sound is currently turned down. Tiny lifts his head, ears perking up alertly when Bucky steps into the room. 

“Some watch dog you are, Tiny. What if I was a burglar?” 

Steve chuckles faintly and sets his cell phone down as Bucky holds up the bag of antibiotics. “Got your drugs.” 

“We didn’t even hear you come in,” Steve tells him, looking at Tiny, then back at Bucky. “Thanks, Buck.” He watches as Bucky goes into the bathroom to set the pills down on the counter in there, then comes back out and sits down in the arm chair next to the bed. 

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky says. “How are you feeling?”

“Just really tired,” Steve admits, and he looks it. He struggles every time he speaks, the circles under his eyes are prominent and he’s pale despite his fever. Speaking of which…

“We should take your temp again,” Bucky notes, hopping up out of the chair to go back to the bathroom and grab a thermometer. 

“You make a great nursemaid,” Steve grumbles, but opens up obediently when Bucky thrusts the glass stick toward his mouth. 

“Whatcha watching?” Bucky picks up the TV remote, not really expecting an answer while Steve has the thermometer under his tongue, and turns the sound back up a bit on the hockey game that’s playing. 

Steve waits until Bucky takes the thermometer back out of his mouth and checks it—102.5 Fahrenheit, damnit—before foolishly suggesting, “You know, you could go back to your place and grab some sleep if you want to…”

Bucky cuts him right off there. “I said I would watch you, and I’m going to watch you. I’ll sleep in the guest room, if that’s okay.”

Steve smiles faintly at him, as if he knew that would be Bucky’s answer already. “Yeah, that’s okay. Do you at least want to change out of your work clothes first?”

Looking down at himself, Bucky just then realizes he’s still in his dress slacks and tie. “Oh. Yeah,” he says with a smile. “I forgot.”

Giving him another wan smile, Steve’s eyes drift shut. “I’ll be right here if you want to go home and change.”

“Good idea.” 

“All of my ideas are good.” 

Bucky has to smile and shake his head at that. Steve didn’t even bother opening his eyes to deliver that line. Taking Tiny out again, Bucky traipses next door to get himself ready for bed. When he’s all set, phone in hand, he returns next door and brings Tiny back in for the night. He debates whether or not to go back in and sit with Steve for a while, or let him rest and go right to the guest room.

Steve is already asleep when Bucky pokes his head in but he still can’t bear to leave his side yet, so he parks himself in the armchair next to him and kicks off his shoes. The hockey game is in the third period, so he decides to wait until it’s over and then turn in. 

An hour later, Bucky wakes with a start. The local news is on the television, but that’s not what woke him. Steve is coughing violently, and the deep rattling in his chest scares the shit out of Bucky. 

“Can I get you anything?” he asks when the coughing abates.

“Maybe some water,” is the weak reply, so Bucky complies. 

After handing Steve the cup and letting him take some cautious sips, Bucky stretches his arms over his head to work out the kinks from falling asleep in the chair. Steve notices this despite his sickly state. 

“I’m okay if you want to go lie down in a real bed,” he suggests, and Bucky nods. 

“I’ll check up on you in a bit,” he tells him, turning off the light, then the TV with the remote and setting it down next to the glass of water Steve already deposited on the bedside table. 

“Thanks Buck.”

Bucky sets his alarm to wake himself in two hours, but doesn’t really need it. Sleep is elusive and he only gets in fitful, short stretches of rest. The remainder of the time he worries about Steve. It’s about a half hour after midnight when he hears it. 

“Buck?”

It’s Steve’s voice, weak and thready, and Bucky vaults himself out of bed to be at his side in a flash, moving through the darkened house like it’s his own. 

“I’m here.” He puts a hand to Steve’s forehead again and curses under his breath. His fever is back up; time for more Tylenol. 

Grabbing it and a cold, wet washcloth from the bathroom, he comes back to hear Steve repeat his name.

“I’m right here.” As Bucky is picking up the glass of water from the bedside table, Steve grabs onto his forearm. The skin of his palm feels hot and dry.

“How’d you get here so fast from your place?” he asks, sounding dazed.

 _It’s the fever. He doesn’t know what’s going on._ Bucky sets the glass back down for the moment and sits on the edge of the bed, putting the cold washcloth on Steve's forehead. 

“No, I was here, in the next room, remember? We were at the hospital, and then came back home. You have a high fever.”

“I….yeah, I remember now.” 

Steve’s breathing is so labored, every word he speaks requires significant effort and still comes out raspy. Bucky starts to wish the doctor had insisted on admitting him overnight. He presses the Tylenol into Steve’s empty hand. 

“Here, you need to take these.”

Steve looks down at the pills in his hand. Without dislodging Steve’s other hand from his left arm, Bucky reaches over with his right and picks up the glass of water, holding it up for him. Steve puts the pills into his mouth and takes the proffered glass, swallowing the medication down. He grimaces; probably he has a hell of a sore throat, too, and turns to regard Bucky again. 

“Thanks.”

“Stop talking,” he orders, but in a kindly way. It doesn’t take long for the fatigue to set in; he waits till Steve’s eyes close again and regretfully lifts Steve’s hand from his forearm to place it back on the bed. 

“I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

With that he returns to the guest bedroom, but only stays there for about twenty minutes before worry propels him back into Steve’s room to check on his fever. He doesn’t wake when Bucky sits down next to him and checks his forehead. Still hot, but not as alarmingly hot. Bucky refreshes the cold washcloth and replaces it. He stands, wavers, sits down in the arm chair, stands up again, curses under his breath, and sits down in the arm chair again. Steve is so beautiful. And vulnerable. He can’t leave him. Tiny looks at him from his spot on the end of the bed, his dark eyes shining in the moonlight.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Bucky grumbles, crossing his long legs at the ankles and settling back in his spot. 

Tiny lays his head back down on the bed. Lucky dog. Bucky sighs and lets his head fall back on the chair. Gonna be a long night.


	9. Tell Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

Chapter Nine

Steve’s fever stays high for the next few hours, hovering at 104 degrees, which means Bucky’s alert level stays high as well. He barely sleeps, because Steve isn’t really sleeping either. Between coughing fits he seems to doze, but his peace never lasts long and when he wakes, Bucky wants to be nearby for him. He’s gone through countless cold compresses on Steve’s forehead; he burns through them in minutes. After another two or three hours of sitting in the armchair and with a backache that’s becoming highly annoying, Bucky’s ready to cry Uncle. 

After putting yet another cold washcloth on his sick friend, Bucky finally gives in and circles around to the other side of the bed, where the enticingly empty spot calls his name. He climbs on, carefully so as not to wake the other occupant, and stretches out to full length. _Ahhhhh._ So much better than the chair. He intends to just stay there a few minutes but instead falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

When he next wakes and peeks guiltily at the clock, it’s about five in the morning and not light yet. Not time yet for more Tylenol or the steroid the doc put Steve on. Turning onto his side to face him, head elevated by pillows about at the same level as Steve’s, he takes a long look at his face, untroubled in sleep. The long fringe of his eyelashes. The clean profile. The soft hair sticking up at weird angles from his forehead, thanks to all those cold compresses. The washcloth has disappeared to who knows where. 

Reaching out, Bucky ghosts his knuckles lightly across Steve’s cheek before checking for fever, ignoring the tender feelings that swell in his chest. His fingers tingle where they touch Steve’s skin. God, it’s hard to _not_ let it show how much he completely adores him. But on a topic more appropriate, Steve’s fever has finally broken; his skin is slightly warm but much better than it has been since yesterday evening.

“Buck,” Steve murmurs, without opening his eyes. 

“I’m here,” Bucky answers, wondering if he should get his ass off of Steve’s bed, but as he withdraws his hand Steve catches it and pulls it to his chest, holding it to him. His breaths are slow and rhythmic under Bucky’s hand and arm, and now what? He’s sure as shit not going to pull away, what with Steve cradling his arm like that. What if Steve wakes up fully and wonders why the hell Bucky’s arm is draped over him? Why Bucky is on his bed in the first place?

That said, he’s really comfortable right where he is and his fatigue level is such that Bucky quickly reaches the point of not giving two fucks. Steve is sick, and he’s taking care of him. End of story. If he crashes next to him, so be it. Steve’s not going to begrudge him some sleep, is he? No. Next to him Steve coughs again, and while the deep wheeze is still scary-sounding Bucky doesn’t get quite as worked up, knowing the fever has come down. A bit more sleep and then it’ll be time to wake him up for the next round of medication. Until then…

Bucky doesn’t wake again until sunlight is attempting to stream around the cracks of Steve’s window shade and fill the room. When he does wake, he’s in the exact same position, facing Steve. His arm, still being clutched to Steve’s chest, has gone completely numb. And Steve’s eyes are open. Looking into his. Bucky feels his own eyes widen in surprise and his cheeks heat up. Is Steve’s face red, too? 

“Hey Buck.”

“Hey Steve. You sound better. Feel better?”

“Yeah.”

Steve looks down at his own chest, where he has Bucky’s arm trapped. “Guess you’ll be wanting this back now,” he says, somewhat sheepishly, and releases him. 

His voice is still rough, but he does sound less awful compared to last night, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief that has more than one meaning. As in, thank goodness Steve seems to be improving, and thank goodness he doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that Bucky is essentially in bed with him. Of course, being the friend that he is, Bucky goes right after him. Best defense is a good offense, after all.

“Yeah, I assumed with you being sick it might be safe on the bed. Didn’t think you’d try to pull my arm off.”

Making a weak attempt at a laugh, Steve smiles and closes his eyes. “I’d kick you if I didn’t feel like shit right now.”

Sliding his arm off Steve’s chest, Bucky wiggles his fingers in the air as he does so. His numb arm is immediately attacked by that pins and needles sensation he hates, starting in his hand and shooting upward; he makes a face, saying, “owwww!” at the same time. 

Steve’s smile grows a tad larger. “Serves you right for sassing a sick man.”

Rolling off the bed, Bucky stands and stretches, then heads to the bathroom. “You’ll need your antibiotics and stuff,” he says as he goes, fetching Steve’s glass from bedside and his next dose of pills. After Steve takes them, Bucky poses a question for him. “You hungry? You should eat something.”

Steve merely grimaces. “Not hungry.”

“You should still eat something,” Bucky insists. “Wanna try some toast?”

Steve’s face says it all. No toast. 

“What about that disgusting oatmeal you love?”

The texture of oatmeal makes Bucky want to gag, but Steve is a fan and his eyebrows quirk upward in interest, so Bucky assumes that’s a yes. 

“Brown sugar and cinnamon, please.”

“Coming right up.”

Since he’s not even sure when the last time Steve ate was, Bucky’s happy to get anything in his stomach. After letting Tiny out, he uses Steve’s microwave to heat up his swill, or oatmeal, whatever you call it, and gets him set up with that and some orange juice on a TV tray right in bed. Once he’s satisfied Steve will be okay without him for a few minutes, he shoots home to shower, get something of his own to eat, and down large quantities of coffee. After that he grabs his laptop and returns next door. 

Steve has put away a good portion of his breakfast and made his way in and out of the bathroom on his own, but all of that effort has given him the appearance of a wilted flower, as if eating said breakfast has taken way more energy out of him than it put back in, so Bucky suggests he goes back to sleep. Falling in with that suggestion easily enough, Steve lies back on his pillows as Bucky removes the TV tray from where it sits at the bottom of the bed. 

“You didn’t really have to call in sick today just to babysit me,” he says drowsily, and Bucky flashes him a dry smile. 

“Yes, I really did,” he disagrees, nodding his head at him. “I would’ve nose-dived on my keyboard by lunchtime.”

“ ‘M sorry,” Steve murmurs, looking more sleepy by the second. 

“You would’ve done the same for me.” Bucky shifts the tray in his hands and heads for the door. “I’ll be doing some work on my laptop, but I’m gonna catch up on some Z’s in the next room, too.” 

Steve is asleep before Bucky even exits the room. He sets himself a timer to remind him, or wake himself up, when Steve’s next med dose rolls around, and flops onto the couch in the living room. He does get a little work done, but before long his eyelids feel like they weigh a ton and the siren call of sleep cannot be ignored, despite the copious amounts of caffeine he ingested. He wakes next when Tiny presses his nose into his hand and licks it. Opening his eyes, Bucky finds the big dog staring at him, ears perked up hopefully.

“Gotta go out, boy?” 

Tiny wags his tail, which Bucky takes to mean, _yes, that’s why I woke you up, dummy_ , so he stands, stretches, and heads to the sliding glass door. Tiny bounds outside enthusiastically and Bucky shuts the door behind him, turning back toward the living room. His eye is caught by the plastic wrap still hanging and separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. He had to go through it to get to the fridge earlier, and looking at it again gives him pause.

Is it coincidence that Steve developed pneumonia right after breathing in all that dust from sanding the drywall? Is Steve going to want to finish the job himself? Bucky bites his lower lip as he settles back down on the couch. He can’t let that happen, obviously. Steve’s got freaking _pneumonia_. He’ll need to take it easy for at least a couple of weeks, and that will _kill_ him if the kitchen schedule is pushed back.

Bucky googles whether or not drywall dust can cause pneumonia and his eyebrows draw together in suspicion when information on chemical pneumonia pops up. Huh. Well, only one way to make sure Steve isn’t exposed to more of that dust, and that’s to keep him out of there for the duration. Quickly a plan starts to formulate in his mind, and it doesn’t take long for it to become necessary to put into action. 

After coming back inside the house, Tiny trots right back to Steve’s bedroom and Bucky follows behind like a devoted puppy, figuring to check on Steve’s condition. His patient is awake and listening to something on his cell phone when Bucky comes in. His phone is pressed to his ear, but after several seconds he pulls it away, pushes a button and looks at Bucky as he approaches. 

“The cabinet place left me a message. My cabinets are in,” he rasps, but instead of sounding excited, he sounds quite doleful. 

“Isn’t that good news?” Bucky queries while standing next to the bed, and Steve sighs. 

“Yes…but…the drywall is nowhere _near_ done, and there’s painting, and tiling…” Steve trails off, staring at his feet with his bottom lip pushing out.

“Don’t even think about it…” Bucky says threateningly, and Steve looks back up at him.

“Think about what?”

“Don’t play innocent with me. I know you’re thinking since you’re off work you can go do it yourself.” Bucky crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Not happening.”

“But I _will_ be off work, at least the rest of this week,” Steve replies, on the defensive side. Bucky isn’t having any of that.

“No. Way. You can’t even breathe without sounding like you’re dying.” He shakes his head for emphasis. “I’ll finish the sanding this weekend while you’re recovering.”

“Buck…”

“No.”

“But…”

“No.” 

“At least let me…”

“No.” Bucky shifts his weight to his other hip, keeping his arms crossed in front of him. “You’re not doing anything but resting. Period.”

Steve is silent for a moment, then coughs into the crook of his elbow, then falls silent again, regarding Bucky with stubborn eyes. Bucky stares back in silent challenge. It’s a stand-off until finally Steve relents. 

“Alright, fine, have it your way,” he sighs, looking so much like a little boy pouting that it’s hard for Bucky not to laugh. 

“Excellent,” he smiles smugly. “I was running out of beer, anyway.”

He expected Steve to be a lot more peevish on the subject and to put up much more of a fight. Instead, Bucky may not even need to resort to the second part of his plan—bringing in Thor. It was a well-known fact amongst them all that Thor, when using his most authoritarian voice and puffing himself up to his full height and breadth, could scare any one of them into doing anything he wanted. 

But Steve sounded sincere about being a good boy for Bucky (oh, how he wished that was in a different context), so he leaves that subject and moves on to another. Namely, lunch. Steve doesn’t want to eat much but Bucky does manage to convince him to have some soup. And half a banana. All while they are checking out their Fantasy Football team scores on their phones. 

As he scrolls, Bucky has a thought. He’s seen Steve using his phone only a couple of times, and wonders in spite of himself if he was texting Peter. He hasn’t heard him talking to him since that conversation he overheard last night. He doesn’t ask, but the curiosity is starting to get to him. If Steve was _his_ boyfriend, and was as sick as he is, Bucky would be checking on him all the time. Like, ALL THE TIME. Does Peter even care? Steve deserves to be lavished with attention. Steve deserves to be the center of someone’s universe, not a casual fling, only paid attention to when convenient. How come this guy isn’t around more? It bugs him. 

Bucky tosses his cell down in the chair and stands. Maybe he’s going to have to have a little talk with Natasha. He puts that on his mental list of things to do and clears up lunch. 

The rest of the day is comprised of a lot of sleeping, on both their parts, interspersed with medication doses. By evening, though Steve is still very sick, he has improved enough that Bucky isn’t worried about leaving him alone overnight. After all, he does live right next door, so if Steve needs anything he can be there lickety-split. As he is getting ready to remove the TV tray containing Steve’s dinner, (more soup—Bucky heats up a mean can of soup), he recalls the doctor’s warning about what would happen if he hadn’t improved. 

“So I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have to use that nebular thing, huh?” 

Steve tries to laugh and coughs instead. “Nebulizer,” he states helpfully, and nods. “Yeah, that stuff really is terrible. Gave me the shakes every time.”

Bucky can’t help frowning at how much Steve sounds like he speaks from experience. “Is that something you had to do a lot when you were a kid?”

“Often enough. Does this mean you’re not going to stay and hog the bed tonight?”

Chortling, Bucky shakes his head. “You snore too much.” He’s just turning to take the tray out when Steve stops him.

“Hey Buck? Thanks.” 

It’s probably the sixth time Steve has thanked him, at least. “Just get better, man.”

\--

The rest of the week passes quietly. Steve keeps his word and doesn’t try to sneak into the kitchen to do any work. Bucky knows this because he checks. Bucky then keeps his word and sands the walls most of the weekend, till his arms are about to fall off. It's worth it, to see Steve's happy face when he's done, and to be able to pull that Visqueen down for good. Steve's recovery continues, slowly. He's well enough to work from home starting the next Monday, but still tires very quickly. Bucky refuses to let him do any cooking at dinner time, instead having him come over and just sit, keeping him company. 

It feels good and at the same time, something niggles at the back of his mind. _Peter_. He's hardly been around at all, that asshole. He doesn't deserve Steve, and as much as Bucky wants Steve to himself, if he can't have him, he at least wants Steve to be happy with whomever he chooses to be with. Bucky catches Natasha at the fence on Thursday evening, escorting the largest mastiff he’s ever seen with the largest cone he’s ever seen around his head, around in the yard. Bucky has just been over to check on Steve and Natasha asks how he’s doing. Bucky fills her in and then asks about Peter in what he trusts is a roundabout way. 

“So. This guy you set Steve up with. Is he good enough for him?”

Natasha angles her head in surprise. “Peter?” she asks quizzically. “Well…yeah, I wouldn’t set Steve up with someone I thought was a jerk, you know.”

“So you two are friends?”

“Yeah, we went to school together. He’s really a nice guy.”

“Is he treating Steve right, though? I haven’t seen him around much, even though Steve is so sick.”

Brushing her red hair away from her cheek, Natasha shrugs a bit. “Look, I don’t know what stage their relationship is at, Bucky, but I’m sure if Steve wanted him there, Peter would be there. Maybe Steve just wants to rest up, not feel like a burden.”

Considering this a flimsy excuse for not showering Steve with all the love he so richly deserves, Bucky answers with a noncommittal, “Hmm,” before turning and looking distractedly back at Steve’s house.

“Bucky, is there a specific reason you’re asking? I’ve never seen you…like this…about who he’s dating.”

Bucky swallows a bit harder than necessary. “I just don’t want him to get hurt, Nat.”

That’s as close to the truth as it gets. He doesn’t want Peter to hurt Steve. He doesn’t want Peter to hang around much longer, either. Kind of a catch 22. 

Natasha doesn’t know that, though, and smiles at him. “Aww, Bucky, that’s really sweet.”

Immediately blushing, Bucky changes the subject. “So what are you doing for Halloween this year?” 

“Got one party to go to but otherwise not much, how about you?”

Lifting one shoulder, Bucky answers in similar fashion. “The usual, if Steve is healthy enough.” 

The usual means they sit out in Bucky’s driveway with a fire going in his chiminea and two huge bowls of candy to hand out to the neighborhood kids during trick-or-treat time. 

“Oh, I think he’ll be fine by then, you’ve got a week. You worried about the cold?”

Nodding thoughtfully, Bucky bites his bottom lip. “Yeah, but he said he'd be fine, too.” 

The forecast is on the chilly side, and he worried the night air wouldn’t be good for Steve’s lungs while he was recovering. When he said as much, though, Steve pooh-poohed him. Still, he can’t help but be a little anxious. 

“Don’t worry about him so much, he’ll make a complete recovery,” Natasha soothes him, patting his arm where it rests on the fence post. 

“At least he doesn’t have to wear one of those,” Bucky agrees, staring down at the poor mastiff and his gigantic cone of shame. 

Natasha’s laughter rings out across the yard. 

\--

“You tell him yet?”

Sam’s dark head appears over the top of the grey cubicle wall. It’s a Wednesday morning and Sam has asked that question pretty much every day since Bucky came back to work a week ago.

“NO!” Bucky hisses at him, then has to deal with Sam’s disapproving eyebrows.

“Sam, I don’t think this Peter guy is good to Steve,” he shares conspiratorially. His conversation with Natasha had done little to assuage his concern, and Sam is next in line to Steve in his chain of support. 

“All the more reason for you to be honest with him,” Sam says smoothly, slipping around the wall and drifting over to sit on the edge of Bucky’s desk. Papers crunch under his butt, which they both disregard. “Why do you think that?”

“Because Steve has been really sick, and I’ve only seen Peter’s motorcycle over at his place _once_ all week. Once! I’ve been checking on him every day!” Bucky’s chair makes a light squeak as he leans back in it. “If this guy is so crazy about Steve, then where the fuck is he?”

Sam purses his lips and looks around, making sure no one else is close enough to hear their conversation. Only the usual office noise in the background is present, with no one nearby. Clint is off probably looking at videos of otters being cute. “I’m pretty sure if Steve wanted Peter there, Peter would be there.”

Bucky makes a face. Sam sounds just like Nat. “Then why?”

Sam makes a face back, a face that says Bucky is being a dunce. “Because _you’re_ there, dumbass. I’ve been thinking about this since you freaked out at the restaurant."

Bucky frowns; he didn't _freak out_. Sam ignores him and continues. 

"Ever think maybe Steve prefers your company to Peter’s? Ever think maybe he doesn’t want you two around each other because it reminds him of what he can’t have?”

“What can’t he have?” Bucky asks, wrinkling his nose. He would give Steve anything he wanted. _Anything._

“Arggh!” Sam holds his head in his hands and then gestures at Bucky with both. “You! He can’t have you! Or he _thinks_ he can’t have you, because you haven’t told him how you feel!”

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. He’s never thought of it that way. Could that be true? No. Can’t be. He would _know_ if Steve harbored those feelings. Wouldn’t he? His chest feels all funny, what with the longing threatening to burst out of it. He wants desperately to believe Sam could be right, that Steve wouldn’t be dating Peter in the first place if he knew Bucky was into him. 

Sam flicks his fingers up over his head and makes a _bing!_ sound, simulating a light bulb going on. “Think about it,” he orders Bucky. “And tell him.”


	10. I'll Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less than a week to go, my friends! I'm seeing End Game on Thursday night, but never fear, I shall remain spoiler-free! Probably I'll be in a corner somewhere rocking and crying. :-)

Chapter Ten

It’s almost Halloween, and Bucky has spent the last two days comforting Steve and telling him he’s not a failure because the kitchen renovation isn’t done yet. Steve, being the perfectionist he is, had estimated he would be finished by now, so the lack of done-ness is disturbing to him. Even Bucky insisting he should give himself a break because he had freaking pneumonia, thank you very much, did not convince him.

Steve had apologized for still using Bucky’s kitchen (though Bucky didn’t mind). He apologized for making Bucky do the work finishing the sanding (though Bucky volunteered, or rather, insisted). He apologized for thinking remodeling as a do it yourself project was a simple thing (though Bucky told him that wasn’t the case at the beginning). But Bucky didn’t blame Steve for any of that, and didn’t want to see him down. 

“You’re so close to the finish line, Steve! Don’t lose hope now!” he tried to cheerlead a bit and was rewarded with a smile. 

“I could never have done this without you,” Steve declared, shaking his head. “I’ll never be able to repay you, you know.”

“Not true,” Bucky refutes that energetically, since this entire experience has been THE BEST. Holes in the wall? Drywall dust? Aching arms? All worth it, to have figured out he’s in love with his best friend. Not that he tells that to Steve.

“That craft beer you got me was outstanding.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve brushes past him and sits down at Bucky’s kitchen table. “Anyone ever tell you you’re cheap labor?” Though he’s well enough to cook again, it’s Bucky’s turn tonight. “Whatcha got for tomorrow?” he asks as he plops down in a chair and runs his hand through his hair.

“The usual suspects.” Striding over to the fridge, Bucky yanks the door open and takes out the chicken breasts he had marinating in there, laying them on the kitchen counter to warm up a bit. “Snickers, Three Musketeers, Milky Ways.” 

“Bite size?” 

“No, full size. What do I look like, a millionaire?” Bucky razzes. They typically get around two hundred to two-fifty kids on Halloween night. It’s a very family friendly neighborhood.

Steve laughs. “No, I mean the tiny, bite-sized ones like an inch long, or the three inch fun size?”

“Three inches doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

Snorting indelicately, Steve chastises him, “Would you be serious?”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know Halloween candy was serious business.” Bucky grins at the death glare Steve gives him. “Fun size, okay? I got fun size.”

“I got the same thing!” Steve says triumphantly, like it was a contest or something.

“Great, so after I eat my way through my bowl, I can just mooch off of yours.”

“I draw the line at stealing my Halloween candy.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to snort air out his nose. “What about all that paying me back stuff you just talked about?”

“Halloween chocolate is sacred, Buck,” Steve says with total solemnity, blue eyes equally grave.

\--

It’s not that Bucky didn’t believe Sam when he advised him to spill the beans to Steve about his real feelings, and it’s not that he hadn’t been thinking about telling Steve the truth, he just hadn’t worked up the courage yet. It’s easy to think about it, to dream about how perfect it would be and how Steve would admit to having the same feelings, how they would live happily ever after together. 

But then there was always that little voice in the back of his head that whispered, _don’t fuck this up_ , and he couldn’t get rid of it. He knows he _should_ tell Steve, but knowing you should and actually doing the thing you know you should are two completely different things. 

So Halloween night finds Bucky sitting next to Steve in his driveway, chiminea roaring merrily and bowls of candy bars in their laps. Steve seems in good spirits again as he talks about getting the painting done and the porcelain tile on the floor. Bucky is happy to see his earlier frustration be put on the back burner and for him to appear so relaxed. 

They have such a good time sitting and talking, Bucky forms a serious game plan to confess all. He can feel it, the time is right…well, sort of. He can’t do it right _now_ now, what with all the kids and parents constantly coming past. He’s got to do it later, after all the hubbub dies down. Later _tonight_. Once he makes up his mind, a sense of calm steals over him…yet he feels excited at the same time. 

He can’t stop smiling at Steve, to the point where he feels like he’s got to be giving things away, but Steve just seems happy too, not suspicious, so Bucky goes with the flow. As the tide of witches, ghosts, superheroes, and cartoon characters dies down, he feels more and more sure of himself. He’s going to do this. Then he remembers…he promised his sister he would stop over at her house when trick or treat time ended. And since Becca and his two nephews mean the world to him, he isn’t going to back out now. 

It’s okay, though, he can still see Steve later on in the evening. Steve knows about his family plans, so when the pair separate, Bucky doesn’t want to give the show away and ask what his friend is doing the rest of the evening. He kind of wants it to be a surprise, so he simply tells Steve he’ll catch him later, without being specific. 

He has a quick visit with his sister, her husband and the kids, during which he admires their costumes (Captain America and the Winter Soldier, complete with a tin foil-wrapped arm, so cute!) and their trove of goodies. He even adds to it with some of his own leftovers, then makes his way back home again. To Steve. He practically flies up into his driveway, opens his garage door and pulls his car in like there’s a wildfire chasing him. Hustling back into his house, he only stops to brush his teeth and make sure his hair is presentable (after all, gotta make sure you look good before you spill your guts to the man you love) before going out his back door. 

It’s dark out now, of course, and just past nine pm, but he can see Steve’s lights on. In fact, as Bucky opens the gate and steps into Steve’s yard, he can see him through the window that looks out from his dining room. He’s got café curtains that cover the lower half of the glass, but he can see Steve standing there...and another man standing in front of him. 

_Peter._

Stopping dead in his tracks, Bucky stares. How did he not notice Peter’s motorcycle in Steve’s driveway? Was he that oblivious when he raced up to his own house? _Fuck._ Steve’s back is to the window. All he can see are their heads and torsos, separated by a couple of feet; Peter is saying something to Steve and Steve nods in return, head bobbing up and down. 

And then Peter _disappears_. Literally. He drops out of the frame of the window completely. He didn’t walk away, isn’t sitting in one of the dining table chairs, didn’t bend down to pick something up and then reappear. He’s just…out of sight. On the floor. Bucky’s heart stops. _No_. Would they? Out in the open? He shakes his head. They’re not out in the middle of the street, for chrissakes. Steve can do what he wants in the privacy of his own home. But…what’s happening can’t be what he thinks is happening. It just _can’t_. Steve is still standing there, looking down in front of him. And Peter is…still down below. Somewhere. 

That’s when Bucky panics and loses it. He can’t un-see this. He can’t take seeing any _more_ of this. Turning, he streaks back to his house, embarrassment and misery and just god-awful heartache overwhelming him. He slams his door behind him and then leans against it, eyes closed, chest heaving. His brain feels fried. How could he have just discounted Peter like that? What a dope he is, not to think that maybe he and Steve would have plans. 

_You’re not the only man in Steve’s life, remember?_ After a minute or two of just trying to get his breathing back under control, Bucky shuffles back into his home, heading for his bedroom. He steadfastly refuses to look out any window that faces Steve’s house, not wanting to see anything else that would either make him crazy with jealousy, or sick with anguish. He throws off his clothes, showers and puts on soft sweatpants and a softer t-shirt, his cozy comfort wear, then prowls back to the living room.

Flicking on the television, he hopes to find something worthwhile to distract him. He puts on a movie…The Hunt for Red October. It works in a limited fashion. The whole time Russian Sean Connery is speaking English through a Scottish accent, Bucky thinks about Steve. He thinks about how he really has missed his chance. How Steve will never be his and how he should have told him earlier. Why did he wait this long? Maybe things would have been different if he’d spoken up sooner. Clearly the relationship between Peter and Steve has advanced, if that scene was any indication. 

But his thought pattern changes gradually, and as he skips forward to the part when Alec Baldwin is sneaking around the Red October getting shot at, Bucky moves from sorrow at the loss of his potential relationship with Steve, to anger. Anger at _Peter._ He’s pretty sure he knows what was going on there in Steve’s dining room, with Peter apparently on his knees in front of him, and what the hell? Is that all Steve is to this guy, a booty call? A convenient fuck? 

He tries very hard _not_ to think about the two of them having sex. He tries _not_ to imagine Steve in the throes of passion, calling out someone else’s name besides his. Calling out _Peter’s_ name. This guy though…he has a lot of nerve. Hardly ever shows up at Steve’s place, and when he does, that’s all he wants? How dare he treat Steve that way? How dare Steve let himself be treated that way? Peter doesn’t know what he’s got in Steve, and he doesn’t deserve him. Not by a long shot.

It’s wrong on all sorts of levels, and Bucky has to do something about it. Something like…tell Steve the truth as soon as the interloper at his house leaves. It all comes round back to that. He has to tell him. If Sam is right and Steve does have feelings for him, he’s got to know Bucky’s secret. Then he can make up his own mind about what, or who, he wants. 

But when will that be? What if Peter spends the night? _Oh God, please no._ Restlessly Bucky gets up from his couch and goes to his front window, peeking through the glass over towards next door. No motorcycle out in the driveway! He bites his lip. So Peter _did_ just come over for sex. Asshole. Blowing air out his mouth noisily, Bucky leans back from the window and goes to find some shoes. Only one road to go down now. 

He creeps out his back door and over to the yard next to his, scanning the windows for any other surprises, but sees nothing. Tiny lopes over, pink tongue sticking out as he snuffles his nose into Bucky’s hand to be petted. 

“Hey Tiny,” Bucky whispers, then wonders why he’s whispering. He’s not _sneaking_ in, for crying out loud. Steve’s lights are still on so he knows he’s not in bed. Pulling open the sliding door and letting Tiny go first, Bucky steps into the house and calls out Steve’s name. 

Steve appears almost immediately to his left, from the direction of the living room and says cheerily, “Hey Buck! What’s up?”

He’s awfully cheery. He’s too damn cheery. _Maybe you’d be cheery too if you just got blown._ Bucky runs his eyes suspiciously up and down Steve’s form. He’s still wearing the same clothes he had on earlier when they’d been sitting outside together. He smells great, like the fire, all smoky and delicious. He doesn’t look debauched, but then, would Bucky know the difference anyway? He’s never seen Steve like that. 

An image embeds itself in his mind, of Steve all those years ago when they made out in their dorm room, and he gets flustered and sidetracked. Steve, with those pretty, red lips, flushed cheeks and eyes dark with arousal. It does something to him and he forgets what he wanted to say. He clears his throat, aware that Steve is looking at him and probably wondering why the fuck he’s over so late.

“Hey, I…” Bucky has a sudden flash of terror that Peter is still in the house somewhere and will pop up at the most inopportune time. “Is your…friend gone?”

Steve stops moving a couple yards away from him, looking confused. “Peter? Yeah…he’s gone. How did you…”

Of course he is, the prick. Why would he stick around and spend time with Steve, the most amazing man in the world? Bucky grunts. “Got what he wanted, then?” 

He’s sorry the second the words come out of his mouth. It’s not what he meant to say, but his resentment and envy got the best of him. Fuck…it just slipped out.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Trying to backpedal, Bucky then successfully makes things worse. “I just…are you sure this guy is treating you right?”

“Treating me right.” Steve repeats the words slowly, as if he’s trying to follow Bucky’s train of thought and failing. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. Isn’t it obvious? Can Steve really not see what’s going on? It makes him even more angry, thinking Peter is taking advantage of his trusting nature. Is he feeding Steve a line of shit that he’s buying into? Probably he’s running around on him, too, behind his back. Every horrible way Steve _could_ be treated suddenly becomes cold, hard fact inside Bucky’s head, and he temporarily loses his sanity. 

“I mean, I hardly ever see him here. Does he come over just for sex?”

 _Oh my God._ Did he just say that out loud? He has to take it back. 

Steve’s mouth drops open and his cheeks go splotchy red. “What?” he says in disbelief.

But Bucky doesn’t take it back. It’s as if the floodgates have opened, and there’s no way to shut them. “I saw you both in the dining room earlier, Steve,” he tells him, with no control over what’s flowing out of his mouth. He wants to shut up, but instead more shit comes out. “I saw him drop down on you. Is that all he wants? Is that all _you_ want?” He gestures to the big blond with his hands. He’s gone too far, but he can’t stop himself. He just needs to make Steve _see_. “Don’t you want _more_ than that?”

Instantly Steve turns even more scarlet red, his flush extending from his cheeks to his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea what I want.” Steve’s voice is low, seething at first but then growing louder. One accusatory finger comes stabbing out toward Bucky. “And you don’t get to tell me who I should see or not see! You don’t have that right!” 

He’s _angry_ too, but not at Peter. He’s angry at _Bucky._ Who could blame him, after all that trash that just came out of his mouth? 

Faltering, Bucky tries again, feeling like this is spiraling out of control. “No, I know I don’t… but why would you settle for someone like him? He’s using you!”

If Bucky thought that was the way to go, he was dead wrong. Steve looks like he’s been slapped, his face somehow a cross between stricken and livid. 

“You can’t just…it’s none of your business, for one thing, and since when have you EVER cared who I was fucking, anyway, Bucky?” he yells. He _yells_ at Bucky. He’s never done that. Ever.

“I…” That’s what finally gets Bucky to shut up. He has no answer. Years have gone by, and he’s never spoken to Steve about who he loved or what he wanted, almost like he didn’t want to break the spell that was over both of them, didn’t want to ever think Steve would be happy with someone else, even though he didn’t know that he wanted Steve all to _himself_ in the first place. He stands stock still, wishing he could crawl into a hole in the ground, wishing he could undo this whole conversation. What was he thinking, barging in here like this? 

“Steve, I…I’m sorry,” he splutters. He’s kicked up a hornet’s nest, and this isn’t at all how he wanted this to go down, and now he’s clueless how to make it better. Steve doesn’t show his temper often, and when he does, his ire isn’t usually directed at Bucky. The strangeness of it throws him off even more. 

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” The sarcasm drips from Steve’s voice. “You come over here, out of the blue, thinking you know how I should live my life? Thinking you can tell me what to do?”

“No! I don’t think that!” Bucky feels hot all over and knows he’s likely as red as Steve is, but it’s embarrassment that is the cause of his coloring, not anger. He was supposed to be confessing, not judging, and now…

“Thank you for sharing your infinite wisdom,” Steve says coldly. “But it’s late. You should go home.”

Bucky is shaking, literally trembling in his spot because he’s ruining _everything_ and now Steve is pissed as hell at him. He doesn’t want to go, but what other choice does he have right now? Steve doesn’t want him there. He backs up slowly, ready to give up in defeat, and that’s when he sees it…out of the corner of his eye, standing in the dining room. A shiny new wet saw, red metal legs and silver blade gleaming in the light. He turns his head, taking it in, not believing what his eyes are seeing.

It’s in the dining room. And it wasn’t there yesterday. And Bucky is a complete fucking idiot who made all sorts of assumptions he shouldn’t have. 

The thumping in his chest is so loud he’s sure Steve can hear it. “What is that?” he asks, but his voice is barely audible even to himself. 

Still, Steve hears it. His arms cross in front of his chest. “That’s the wet saw I just got for the porcelain tile. Peter offered to put it together for me so I wouldn’t tire out too much.” 

And of course Steve knows, knows Bucky has just realized his mistake, and also that it doesn’t even matter if it was a mistake. Whatever he and Peter were doing was none of Bucky’s business anyway, and he knows it now. For all his good intentions, he sure fucked this up. Bucky can barely bring his eyes back to Steve’s, he’s so ashamed of himself.

Steve waits, but when Bucky doesn’t move or speak, he asks in the still-unforgiving voice, “Are you leaving or not?”

Is Bucky leaving? His legs are rooted to the ground, paralyzed. His heart is in his mouth. Steve is staring at him, waiting for him to turn tail and run, slink back to his own place. Part of him wants to do that, to go lick his wounds in private and try to figure out how it all went so wrong, and how to make it all right again. 

But will he? Ever be able to make this right? He said things he shouldn’t have said. Things he regrets already. Will he ever have the nerve to bring this up again, even just to apologize? It hurts so much to think about it he doesn’t even want to. He wants to forget it ever happened…only, what if that was the mistake he made nearly a decade ago, too? He owes Steve so much more than that. He _owes_ Steve, and he _loves_ Steve. 

Bucky opens his mouth, feels his lip tremble, takes in a sharp breath and lets it out, and hardens his resolve. He’s not leaving this room.

“I’m not.”

\--

Steve looks surprised, like he thinks he couldn’t have heard what Bucky said properly. “What?” 

“I said, I’m not leaving,” Bucky states succinctly, and takes a step toward him. His feet weigh a solid ton each, but they obey the commands of his brain. “I’m sorry.”

Steve still looks pissed, but he stays silent and Bucky takes another step toward him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said those things. I was wrong, and it’s none of my business, and I never meant to tell you what to do. But there’s something else I should have said, something I should have told you already. I just didn’t have the nerve.”

Shrugging his shoulders lightly, Steve sags a bit, looking deflated but still skeptical. “Oh? And what’s that?”

Bucky swallows hard. He’s never been this afraid to say anything to anyone. The fear of driving Steve away…it presses down so heavily on him it’s almost unbearable, but he can’t stop now. 

“Steve, I was jealous. I’m jealous of Peter.”

Forehead crinkling, Steve shakes his head, looking almost sympathetic now. “Why would you be jealous of Peter? Did you think he was going to replace you as my best friend or something?”

“No.” Bucky closes his eyes. Dear, sweet Steve. Not quite it, babe. But Bucky’s almost there, he can do it. “That’s not it.”

“Then what? What’s in your head, Buck? You’ve never spoken to me like this before.” Steve sounds genuinely bewildered, and Bucky opens his eyes again and looks at him. The anger in his eyes has abated, leaving confusion. 

“I know, and you can see whoever you want to see, do whatever you want to do. I thought I could be happy for you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t mean to… there’s just so much stuff in my head, Steve, so much I can’t think straight. I haven’t been thinking straight.”

“Stuff like what?”

“Stuff like…” Bucky hesitates, but Steve’s pure blue eyes, his adorable face, give him the courage he needs to go on. He takes a deep breath. “Stuff like love. Stuff like…I’m completely in love with you.”

All the air has now abandoned his lungs. He said it. He _actually_ said it. He takes a shaky breath in and hurries, before Steve can break his heart. “I love you, and even if you don’t love me like that, I had to tell you. Even if you don’t love me, I still want to be your best friend…”

“Buck.”

It stops him from saying anything else, the intensity of that single word. Steve’s face—he looks dumbstruck. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. Bucky just can’t tell if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. Bucky’s jaw hangs open, no words coming out as he waits for the other shoe to drop. Steve is staring at him, looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, and what does that _mean_?

“Bucky, you should go home.”

The words crush him instantly, hollowing him out on the inside in a way he couldn’t possibly have guessed was as painful as it is. Go home…so that’s it then. The damage he did is irreparable, the revelation unwanted. A dead space seems to open up inside him, choking out anything that ever remotely resembled happiness. He was wrong, and everything lays in ashes around his feet, destroyed.

But then everything changes when Steve goes on.

“You should go home, because I have to go tell Peter I can’t see him anymore.” His face changes and Bucky memorizes it as it moves from a startled state to one of adulation. “I have to tell him I’ve been in love with my best friend since we first met.” 

Their eyes lock together and Bucky absolutely cannot breathe again. What? He’s about to burst open. Steve didn’t just say that. Steve couldn’t have meant that. Is it possible? He feels like he’s going to pass out or float away, his head feels so light. Every dark thought has been banished, replaced by pure light and ecstasy.

Steve’s head shakes minutely. “I have to tell him every adult relationship I’ve ever had has been an effort to get over you. Every single one,” Steve breathes at him. “But I’ve never been able to. Bucky, you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

They’re still not moving, just standing there staring at each other, and it’s starting to get ridiculous. Bucky feels the corner of his mouth quirk up, just barely. “Might want to leave off that last little bit when you talk to him,” he teases gently, and then they’re _both_ flying toward each other, into each other’s arms. 

When their lips meet, it’s just like Bucky remembers it from the last time, though it was so long ago. Suddenly he’s dizzy with elation, and need, and _want_. Steve’s arms are around his waist, pulling him close, so close his heartbeat competes with Bucky’s, whumping crazily against his chest. Bucky’s hands cradle Steve’s face, bringing his mouth to Steve’s, and he can’t get enough. 

Steve opens his mouth, deepening the kiss right away and Bucky reciprocates, licking into that warm, wet place he’s wanted to be for so long now. A whimper comes from the back of his throat and is swallowed up by Steve as they kiss and kiss. Steve’s taste…it’s like coming home. His mouth is rough, demanding almost, taking control of what he wants, and Bucky lets him. He drowns in it and revels in it. They don’t break for air. They don’t break to talk. Their bodies already are saying everything that needs to be said right now. 

Bucky sighs again, a puff of air passing between them and he slides his hands into the soft hair at the back of Steve’s head. He wants this every day of his life. Steve’s tongue is soft and hot, pushing confidently into his mouth to claim it. They can just keep kissing forever, as far as he’s concerned. Steve’s hand slips up his back, pulling their bodies even closer together, and the sensation is almost more than he can take. He tingles and shakes, and loves every second of it.

It’s everything he wants. 

Steve breathlessly pulls back first, but stays close. “Why haven’t you told me before now? Kissed me before now?” he demands. 

Bucky is equally breathless, and can’t take his eyes off Steve’s swollen, kiss-bruised lips at first. When he looks into his eyes though, it’s worth it to lose the view of the lips. “Didn’t know I wanted to. Didn’t know _you_ wanted me to.”

“I’ve always wanted you,” Steve whispers. “It’s always been you.” 

His eyes sparkle. How could Bucky have ever doubted that this was meant to be? That they were made for each other, no matter how long it took him to realize it?

“Now I want you to go,” Steve tells him, and lays his hand on Bucky’s cheek to calm him when he starts to panic, clutching at Steve’s waist to prevent him from getting away. 

“I was serious when I said I need to go see Peter. I need to end it with him before I start anything with you.”

“I think we already started,” Bucky disagrees, and Steve has the grace to smile at that. “But okay.” Bucky nods, then can’t help making one request. “Come back to me…after?”

His hands feel so natural, sitting on Steve’s hips. It all feels right, exactly how it should be. He can’t stand the thought of not having Steve in his arms any more tonight, can’t stand the thought of Steve going to do this alone. 

“I don’t know what time it’ll be,” Steve cautions, but it’s not a no.

“I’ll wait up. You sure he’ll still be awake?”

Steve nods and chews his lip. “He’s a night owl. He’ll be up.”

“Okay.” Bucky steels himself for the separation. Already it’s hard to let go. “You want me to do…anything?”

He can’t imagine what he could possibly do in this situation, but still feels compelled to ask. Steve shakes his head and pulls away, and the cold air that whooshes in between them makes Bucky shiver. 

“No,” Steve answers. “Why don’t you just stay here with Tiny though? He’s good company.”

“I dunno if he can compete with Pumbaa, but okay.”

“I knew you liked that pig,” Steve says fondly, and reaches up to caress Bucky’s cheek with the knuckles of his hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

Bucky leans into his touch and takes Steve’s hand in his, kissing the knuckles that were just against his skin. “I’ll be here.”


	11. The Right One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, but there was the whole End Game thing, and I have a raging case of lateral epicondylitis at my elbow that made typing time limited. Promise to get the next chapter out quicker. :-) As always, thanks for reading/commenting/kudo'ing. It means everything!

Chapter Eleven 

Bucky frowns when he sees Steve’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not…it was just…hard. He’s really a nice guy. He’s just not _the_ guy.” 

As Steve buries his face deeper into the crook of Bucky’s neck, Bucky considers himself the luckiest man on the planet because he’s _the_ guy. As soon as Steve had left for Peter’s place, Bucky had texted Sam to fill him in. Sam, being a wise ass, had simply texted back, _I TOLD YOU SO_ and some smiley emojis. Bucky thought about texting his sister and mother, but since it was on the late side of the evening decided to wait till the next day, because they would both surely want lengthy details. 

When Steve got back from Peter’s and came in through the door, Bucky had immediately opened his arms and let him fall into them. Steve looked exhausted—not just physically but mentally as well, which Bucky understood. Breaking up with someone was never fun, and Steve seemed to genuinely like Peter. 

Maybe Peter is a decent human being after all, but Bucky isn’t worried about him at the moment. He’s worried about Steve. Who is now _his_ Steve. He tightens the circle of his arms around his Steve and just holds him for a minute, letting him breathe. Slowly the tension leaves his body and he relaxes. Only then does Bucky release him, take his hand and pull him through the living room.

“Now it really is late, and you need sleep,” he says as he tugs him down the hallway. 

“Don’t want you to go,” Steve mumbles, sounding weary, and Bucky turns back to look at him directly, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He smiles and Steve smiles back, and it’s so easy, so comfortable. Though Bucky had imagined their first night together many times, none had transpired in the direction this one seemed to be headed. Most of his brain’s concoctions involved passionate love-making and sexy-time galore, but this was not the time for that. Steve needs TLC, not Casanova. It doesn’t matter though, it’s still perfect, and all he wants to do now is make Steve feel safe, and valued, and cared for. 

He gives him a push toward the bathroom in the master suite. “Go do whatever you need to. I’ll make sure Tiny is okay.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

Obediently Steve shuffles into the bathroom and Bucky goes to let Tiny out one last time, then locks up and shuts off the lights. When he re-enters the bedroom Tiny has beaten him there and Steve is already sitting on the side of the bed, ruffling up his dog’s ears and giving him a kiss on the head. He turns when Bucky comes into the room and Bucky has a moment of insecurity, unsure if Steve wants him to stay. Then Steve smiles, and the warmth that radiates from him chases away his doubts.

“Bucky, how did you…when did you…” 

Steve falters and Bucky finishes his sentence for him. “When did I realize I was in love with you?” He sits down next to Steve, eyes focused on his. “Right after we started the kitchen.”

Steve’s blond head shakes. “How did I not know? I wish I’d known.”

“Thought I was doing the right thing, letting you find the right one, and all that shit,” Bucky confesses. “But it just kept getting harder and harder. I couldn’t let go of you.” He leans in and kisses Steve softly, gently on the lips. Steve kisses back, just as sweetly, and they trade short, nibbling kisses, getting to know the feel of the other’s lips and the way their mouths fit together. Steve’s eyes are soft when they pull apart. 

“You _are_ the right one, Buck. Always have been.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I was so stupid.”

Steve smiles at that and caresses Bucky’s cheek with his hand. “Not stupid…just not ready, that’s all.”

Bucky savors the feeling of Steve touching him, and ignores the stirring of desire deep inside himself. Steve’s needs come first. 

“I’m ready for it now, Steve. I’m ready for it all. I want to be here for you, share everything with you…right after you get some shut-eye,” he adds in a teasing tone, and stands up. “Now come on, you get in bed, and try not to hog the whole thing so I can have a little space on the other side.” He looks down at Steve, trying to gauge his response. “If that’s okay.”

As if that should have been obvious, Steve makes a _duh_ face at him. “Of course I want you to stay. And FYI, if you’re trying to take care of me, you’re killing it.”

“Good to know,” Bucky agrees, smiling, and pulls the covers back, tugging them out from underneath Steve so he can lie down. Once he’s moving Bucky walks to the door and shuts off the light. It’s the last one on in the house, so the room is plunged into darkness. He knows the layout like his own, so it’s not hard to navigate to the other side of the bed and feel his way up to the top, where he quickly shucks off his shoes and socks. He didn’t even stub his toe on anything, so that was a bonus. 

The real bonus, though, is when he climbs into the bed and Steve asks in a low voice, “Buck? Could you just…hold me for a while?”

“I excel in the holding department,” he answers and scoots closer to the other occupant of the bed. Through the darkness he can make out Steve’s silhouette next to him as he too moves closer to the center of the bed. Bucky is on his back and holds one arm up so Steve can slide right in. He drapes one arm over Bucky’s chest and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder, and _oh my God_ it’s so amazing, Bucky could cry. He kisses the soft hair on top of Steve’s head and whispers some sweet nothings to him.

_“Don’t drool on me.”_

Steve’s body shakes with silent laughter. “I promise nothing.” Then his head shifts and he looks up at Bucky, whose eyes have now adjusted enough to see back into his, dark but shining in the low light. “I take that back,” Steve says. “I promise one thing…that I love you.”

A smile erupts over Bucky’s face. “Damnit…alright, maybe a _little_ drool,” he clowns, then gets more serious. “I love you, too.” This part he’s not kidding about. In fact, he’s never been more serious in his life. Just being able to say it out loud to Steve himself, in the flesh…it fills him up completely with warm, sappy bliss.

Steve squeezes his arm a little tighter around Bucky’s middle, and his head settles back down on his shoulder. His touch, right through Bucky’s thin t-shirt, makes Bucky shiver. Even with Steve’s warm body next to his and eyelids that are half drooping, Bucky expects to be awake for a while, just from all the emotional adrenaline of the evening. He expects Steve to be the one to pass out first, but instead he falls asleep almost instantly. 

He remembers waking once in the middle of the night somewhere, feeling for Steve’s still form next to him, listening for his deep, even breaths, and going right back to sleep again because all is right with the world. When he wakes next, it’s morning and the room is filled with pale, early light. It’s going to be a sunny day. 

Steve still slumbers peacefully next to him, no longer with his head on his chest but still close by. That’s a good thing for Bucky, since he desperately has to pee. Silently he slips out of bed and pads barefoot to the bathroom to relieve himself. After his emergency needs are cared for he takes a peek in the mirror, makes a face and tries unsuccessfully to smooth down his bed-head, then gives it up as a bad job and steps out, where someone else is waiting patiently just outside the door.

The Great Dane stands in the bedroom, eyes alertly focused on Bucky and tail wagging; he turns toward the hallway when Bucky appears. 

“Alright, Tiny, I see you,” Bucky whispers, following him out of the room. By the time the big dog has been outside and back in and Bucky races back to the bedroom, Steve is awake and sitting up, stretching his arms up to the ceiling. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he admonishes him, but not with any heat in his voice. 

“I know,” Bucky replies, and sits down on Steve’s side of the bed. “Good morning.”

“Good morning it is,” Steve agrees, rubbing at his similarly sleep-tousled hair. “I’d kiss you but it might scare you away.”

“If the drooling didn’t, I don’t think morning breath will either,” Bucky claims, but turns his head to the side and leans forward so Steve can plant a kiss on his cheek. He does so, putting a big smile on Bucky’s face.

“So, when do you want to start?” 

Steve tips his head to one side and lifts an eyebrow. “Can you be more specific?”

Bucky smiles. “Texturing the walls, brainiac. We have to texture before we paint, remember?” They’d had a conversation about it Halloween night…it seemed like forever ago, when it was really only, what? Early last evening? Everything prior to him and Steve confessing to each other already felt like ancient history. Their _old_ lives, not their new ones. 

Steve beams at him. “Today. Right now. Twenty minutes ago.”

Laughing, Bucky smiles back. “How about I make you breakfast first?”

Both of Steve’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Breakfast?”

“Bacon and eggs?”

Steve nods happily and Bucky stands. “Come to my place when you’re ready.”

\--

Breakfast is a pretty hot affair, between the frying pan Bucky uses for the eggs and bacon and all the kissing they do. Steve sweeps up behind him as he stands at the stove and kisses the back of his neck in greeting. Bucky promptly turns around and catches him in his arms, still holding a spatula in one hand, and kisses him on the mouth. Steve’s lips are soft, his embrace even softer. 

Bucky can’t imagine how he lived this long without it.

“I like this,” he tells Steve, smiling, and receives another kiss in turn. 

“I do, too,” the blond replies, sliding his hands up Bucky’s arms and around his shoulders. “Do we get to do this every day?”

“God, I hope so,” Bucky breathes and leans in, opening his mouth slightly and kissing Steve more leisurely this time. Steve opens his mouth, allowing Bucky to press in, finding his warm, wet tongue and curling around it to deepen their kiss. There is a tilt to Steve’s head, allowing Bucky better access, and he takes full advantage.

His heart rate has quickened, his senses keyed up to a pretty high level. He’s very aware of Steve’s chest touching his, of Steve’s hand clutching at the hair on the back of his head, of how Steve’s hips feel in his grip. The way Steve’s lips move against his moves quickly toward the top of his list of favorite things in the Universe, and learning for the second time the way Steve tastes is an experience Bucky is certain is seared forever into his memory. 

When they break apart, Steve touches his cheek as if to make sure Bucky is really there. “Did that _really_ just happen? I feel like I must still be dreaming this.”

“I can give you an instant replay, if you like,” Bucky half-jokes (no, he’s really quite serious), glancing at Steve’s sinful lips and back to his beautiful blue eyes. 

“I like,” Steve nods and leans in, kissing Bucky again. It’s a longer kiss but still languid; Bucky tries to memorize the way Steve’s fingers dance over his shoulder blades, and happily breathes in the way Steve smells. Then he also becomes aware of a new scent in the room… that of burning bacon.

Steve catches a whiff, too, and breaks off their steamy kiss to point out the other smoke in the room. 

“Bacon!”

“Never thought I’d be mad at bacon,” Bucky grouses, turning around with his spatula to deal with the offending pork product.

Laughing, Steve trails one hand across his back before retreating to get two plates, glasses, and silverware for them to use. As they eat they formulate their plan of attack. First apply texture to the drywall and while that’s drying, start tiling the floor. They’ll have to put in the chandelier in the dining room at some point, too, and then of course come the cabinets, hopefully in a couple more weeks.

They make good use of YouTube when trying to figure out the drywall mud mixture. Fortunately, Steve’s walls and ceiling are pretty smooth, not that popcorn stuff, so it’s fairly easy to replicate. What they didn’t figure on from the videos they watched was how much it would splatter as they rolled it on the ceiling and walls. 

_This shit’s messy_ , Bucky thinks as more of the glop gets into his eye. Steve turns to him from the other end of the room, holding his long handled paint roller up to the ceiling; he has white speckles all over his face, neck and arms.

“Holy crap, are you covered in this stuff, too? I’m a mess!” he declares. 

Bucky makes a visual sweep up and down his body. T-shirt pulled tight across his pecs, slim hips and that sensational ass, encased in worn, body-hugging jeans. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he disagrees, and smiles when Steve blushes at the intensity of his gaze.

“Buck,” he says in a self-deprecating kind of way, but Bucky won’t have any of that.

“Well you are,” he presses. “White stuff all over you seems to suit you,” he adds. Truly, he was thinking of the other time Steve was covered in white—the drywall dust—and doesn’t even realize how that sounded until Steve snorts with laughter. 

“Smooth, Barnes.”

Bucky feels his face flush just a tiny bit. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t mean it that way?”

“Nope.” Steve is smiling, though, so it’s okay, and Bucky shrugs. 

“Man, the one time I _wasn’t_ making a dirty joke…” 

\--

They work diligently and steadily, taking breaks as needed for water and more cuddling and kissing. By the time they eat their lunch of cold cut subs, they are ready to start tiling the floor. They’ve got the saw set up in the driveway, taking advantage of the mild weather, and the boxes of tiles have been sitting in Steve’s garage, just waiting to be installed. That, of course, requires heavy dependence on YouTube as well, not just for use of the wet saw, but how to lay out a pattern on the floor. Because Steve doesn’t want just a simple layout. He wants the light grey tile on the floor to be diagonally oriented. Easy, right?

No. It’s not. It’s really fucking not. But they muddle through it, losing some (a lot) of pieces of tile along the way but not caring, because they’re doing this together. At dinner time they decide to just get pizza and eat it out of the box, still in their dusty, sweaty work clothes, because they both want to get just a _little_ more done before calling it quits for the day.

It reminds Bucky a lot of the first night they started the kitchen demo, only now he knows just why he was staring at Steve’s body so much and why he couldn’t get him out of his head. What he still doesn’t know is this…

“Steve,” he starts, pausing to cram in a huge bite of pepperoni pizza and then mumbling through it, “Can I ask you something?”

Steve stops licking the pizza grease off his fingers, which Bucky isn’t sure is a good or bad development, because it was erotic as fuck, and looks at him. They’re sitting next to each other on the couch, plates in their laps and pizza boxes in front of them on the coffee table.

“Sure, what?”

Cradling his pizza slice in one hand, Bucky stares at it, trying to figure out how to ask. “Why…why _wasn’t_ Peter here more, when you were sick, or helping you in the kitchen?” Quickly he returns his gaze to Steve to make sure he’s okay with this line of questioning. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Steve crinkles up a napkin between his fingers and licks his lips. “Because I didn’t want him here,” he says simply.

“What?” Bucky says, surprised, dropping his piece of pizza onto his plate. “I thought you liked him?”

Toying with his napkin, Steve initially avoids his eyes. “I did. He offered to come over the night I got home from the hospital, but you were already with me.” He looks up to meet Bucky’s eyes. “Even if it was wrong to want it, I wanted you to stay. Not him.”

“It’s not wrong to have wanted that,” Bucky declares, and Steve’s head shakes a little.

“I was dating him, but not really letting him into the important parts of my life. I didn’t want his help with the kitchen, either. I wanted it to be you and me, so when I came in here, I would always think of you.” A small smile chases around his lips. “I was terrible at getting over you.”

“Thank fuck’s sake for that!” Bucky counters, with feeling, and that brings a light to his love’s eyes and a larger smile. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly. “Honestly I don’t know if I could ever have given up on you.”

“Well, now we’ll never have to find out,” Bucky declares, voice ringing with certainty. 

More kissing follows, cheesy in nature but no less delightful, and Bucky is convinced he’ll never get enough of the way Steve looks at him after they kiss. Silently he considers what sort of present he should buy Sam, without whose intervention Bucky may never have pushed himself to this point…

After they finish dinner and get a couple more hours of tiling in, they crash on Steve’s couch again with cold pizza, cold beer, and a hockey game on. With a full belly and a full day’s work behind him, Bucky doesn’t even feel himself nod off with his head on the back of the couch, until he jerks awake and finds he has fallen sideways right into Steve’s chest. Steve himself seemed to be in similar condition, dozing with his mouth slightly open. Bucky’s movement startles him awake too and he gives their position the once-over before sneaking his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and joking, “This feels familiar.”

Bucky grins, but then his expression turns to wonder. This _does_ feel familiar, only the tables are turned. And the last time, he didn’t know what he knows now. 

“Steve,” he breathes. “When we fell asleep during nacho movie night, did you know it was me when you were nuzzling my neck?” 

There is a gasp from the man next to him. “You were awake!” Steve says accusingly, and Bucky has the decency to blush. 

He pushes up to sitting, dislodging Steve’s arm around him but taking his hand instead and clutching it in his own. “I was,” he admits, “I just didn’t want you to stop. I liked it too much, but then I didn’t want you to be embarrassed when you woke up if you thought I was your boyfriend.” He searches Steve’s eyes for any anger or disappointment in him and finds none.

Instead, Steve looks as guilty as Bucky feels. “I knew exactly who I was next to,” he confesses. “I was having a dream about you.”

 _Jesus criminy._ They both wanted it. And Bucky wasted so much time. He sinks forward, putting his head on Steve’s shoulder and shaking it back and forth slowly. “I was SO STUPID!”

Laughing, Steve pulls his hand out from between Bucky’s hands, just to cup his face and pull it up toward his own. “Not stupid,” he repeats his earlier line, and gives Bucky a pizza-tinged kiss. 

“That’s not what Sam says,” Bucky grumbles, but accepts the kiss greedily and gives Steve one back as well. 

Steve’s eyes are wide. “Sam knows?” He drops his hands in surprise. “Since when?”

“Since the night at the restaurant. The boxer shorts?” Bucky raises his eyes suggestively.

It takes a moment, then recognition shows in Steve’s eyes. “Pumbaa didn’t really eat your shorts?”

Bucky shakes his head, pressing his lips together in a mock grimace. “No. We were talking about you.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to be surprised when Steve laughs. “So you didn’t actually have boxer shorts with sentimental value?” He’s grinning like a loon, and Bucky can’t help but join him.

“No.” 

Steve leans in and kisses him again, lightly and tenderly. “Maybe I’ll have to get you some. I really love you, you big goofball.”

“I really love you, so I’m going to ignore the goofball comment.” 

As soon as the words come out of Bucky’s mouth, he then yawns widely, covering his mouth so as not to be _quite_ as rude. “God, I’m sorry!” he tells Steve, who shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, I’m beat, too.” He regards Bucky silently for a moment. “This is really _not_ how I fantasized our first nights together would be, but I really just want a shower and then to fall into bed again with you and sleep for a day.”

Bucky drops his eyes as a shy smile spreads across his face, then brings his eyes back up. He’d never thought about _Steve_ having daydreams about the two of them. “You’ve fantasized about us being together?”

“Of course I have,” Steve says succinctly. “Bucky, I’ve been in love with you for years. I think I hold the patent.”

“It’s yours, permanently.” 

Tired or not, raw, primal desire flares up inside Bucky and he really, positively wants to tear Steve’s clothes off of him right now. Just the idea that Steve fantasized about them as lovers is making him feel hot, and his heart start to race. Suddenly he finds himself picturing Steve naked, and that’s not helping to calm himself down at all. He doesn’t want to go too fast for Steve’s comfort, so he gives him a chaste kiss instead of pushing him down on his back on the couch and mounting him. 

“How about we get cleaned up then, and I’ll come back over?”

“Yes please,” Steve agrees with a smile. 

\--

Bucky showers and shaves, and though it’s tempting to take the edge off his aroused state while in the shower, he decides against giving himself a hand job. One, it will keep him away from Steve for too long, and two, he might just end up making himself more horny, thinking about Steve that way right now. So he tamps down those thoughts and heads back over wearing flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt.

Letting himself in Steve’s back door, he takes the liberty of locking up for the night and calls out Steve’s name. Steve answers from the other end of the house—he’s in his bedroom, from the sound of it. Flicking off the lights behind himself as well, he walks down the hall and turns into Steve’s room, coming to a dead halt when he sees him.

He’s standing at his dresser wearing a pair of sleep pants not unlike Bucky’s and nothing else, and shirtless Steve has to be the sexiest thing the human race has ever produced. Steve has a folded shirt in his hands but drops it back into the open drawer when he sees Bucky. He abandons the dresser and approaches him, eyes moving up and down, drinking him in.

Bucky’s doing the exact same thing, only he’s sure he’s got the better end of this deal. Steve’s bare chest is massive, his shoulder muscles defined and perfect. Prickly tingles of yearning spike everywhere inside Bucky, and though he wills his cock to stay dormant, it pretty much says _fuck you_ to Bucky and starts to fill with hot blood. 

He hopes his sleep pants are baggy enough to prevent Steve from noticing, but his eyes are centered on Bucky’s groin as he nears him, so fat chance. Before Bucky has a chance to say anything, though, Steve pushes him up against the wall next to the door and kisses him, and this kiss is as close to x-rated as any kiss Bucky has received in his entire life. 

Steve’s mouth is commanding, demanding entrance to Bucky’s and as soon as he (gladly, eagerly) opens up, Steve’s tongue presses in, so deep into his mouth all Bucky can do is groan into it and sag against the wall. His hands find Steve’s waist and grab on for dear life. His head makes a dull thudding noise as it hits the wall and Steve continues to consume him with his fiery kiss, until Bucky is shaking with want. 

The way Steve tastes, the way his knee shoves in between Bucky’s legs so he can get closer, the way he possesses Bucky so completely, is a huge turn on for him. Steve kisses him to within an inch of his life, totally in control. His fingers clutch at the shirt on Bucky’s chest and then pull upward. They have to stop kissing for Steve to remove Bucky’s shirt from his body; as soon as it clears his head they both look at each other, breathless and with eyes darkening.

Bucky licks his kiss-swollen lips. “Thought you wanted to sleep for a day?”

Steve grins in a feral way and rubs his palms right up over Bucky’s bare chest, bringing a fresh moan to his lips and more than tingles, _shockwaves_ rolling over his skin. Steve gazes at his hands where they rest at Bucky’s collarbones, then moves in closer, bringing his mouth an inch from Bucky’s. His voice is deep and gravelly, more so than Bucky’s ever heard it.

“Fuck sleep. We can sleep _after_.”


	12. Hooray For Snuggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

Chapter Twelve 

Bucky knows full goddamned well what comes between now and when he and Steve will fall asleep, exhausted and spent from what will hopefully be a massive amount of sex, also hopefully with cuddling afterwards. Still, he can’t resist getting a word in edgewise, with a cagey grin on his face. 

“What if I need my beauty slee…ahhhhhhhh!”

His last word is lost to a wondrous sigh as Steve slides his way down his body to kneel at his feet. At that point all coherent thought leaves Bucky’s head for the foreseeable future. Steve’s fingertips trail down his pecs and over his abdomen and Bucky just watches, frozen in his spot. His skin is on fire where Steve touches him, his chest heaving with shuddery breaths, and after longing for Steve’s touch for so long, this doesn’t disappoint. He _wants_ , wants so much right now he can’t even properly put it into thoughts, much less words, but it doesn’t seem like he has to. 

Steve has words in spades. 

“Bucky, I want you.” His fingertips land on the waistband of Bucky’s sleep pants, fiddle with it, then delve experimentally inside by a few centimeters while his big, blue-turning-into-black doe eyes look up. “I want my mouth on you. Please, _God_ , please say you want me to…”

 _Jesus Christ._ With his eyes closed for a second, Bucky tries to wrap his head around the fact that Steve wants to suck his dick. “Yes,” he whispers, “Fuck yes.” His throat has gone dry, and he opens his eyes to look down and make sure Steve heard him. 

That angelic face looks back up at him and the tip of a pink tongue slips out, wetting the bottom lip. Steve heard. Instantly Bucky’s cock throbs in excitement and strains against his boxer briefs. He’s hard, so fucking hard, and the idea that Steve’s plump, red lips are going to be around his length soon is intoxicating. Slowly Steve pulls his flannel PJ’s down over his hips and thighs and lets them pool at his feet.

Trying to be helpful, Bucky toes off his shoes to stand in bare feet, and steps out of his pants. Looking up at him from under the long fringe of his eyelashes, Steve dips his head in closer to Bucky’s groin. His hands slide over Bucky’s thighs and his thumbs press in, holding him still while he mouths at his balls, right over the fabric of his underwear. 

Hot breath seeps through the material and Bucky makes a low whining sound in his throat. Instinctively his hands go to the back of Steve’s head and slip into his short hair, curling into the soft strands. God, he’s so aroused, and Steve hasn’t even gotten him naked yet. He’s still watching Bucky, even as he drags his open mouth over his balls and up, finally finding the long line of his erect cock. 

That he mouths at, too, up and down once, then twice, stopping at the thick head of his cock and kissing it. Bucky can feel the wet spot there without even looking for it, and he tries to push his hips forward, desperate for some friction. Steve’s hands stop him, though, keeping him pinned in place. It feels right to let Steve have control and at the same time it’s not enough, because he wants so much _more_ , and Steve is taking his sweet fucking time with this. 

“God, Steve, come on, please…suck me,” Bucky begs him, and to his own ears his voice sounds strained and needy.

“Patience,” Steve responds, smiling around Bucky’s dick, and rewards him by finally pulling down his boxers, freeing his erection.

The cold air around his unprotected cock is quickly replaced by a hot tongue. Steve laps at him slowly, running his tongue up first the underside of his cock, then along one side and the other, leaving wet stripes behind. He moans and grasps at the base of Bucky’s cock, fisting it as he suckles the head. 

Watching Steve’s mouth close around the tip of his cock comes close to doing Bucky in completely. His dick twitches uncontrollably and he has to will himself not to come yet, not when Steve clearly has so much more to offer. His breaths are shallow and laced with low moans. He’s wanted this, fantasized about it so much, now that it’s finally a reality it’s almost too much to handle. 

He whimpers when Steve closes his mouth around the head of his cock and sucks at it. “Oh God, yes, oh _God_ ,” he breathes, and lets his head fall back against the wall. Steve sinks down on him, taking his cock deeper into his mouth, slowly bobbing his head. His lips are tight around Bucky’s length with no hint of teeth—it’s all soft, wet tongue and lips, expertly sliding on and off.

Steve absolutely knows what to do with his fucking mouth. Bucky groans as the coil of heat in his gut expands and threatens to take over. He wants to move, wants to fuck into Steve’s mouth but knows he can’t, knows if he does then Steve’s grip on his hips will tighten and stop him, so instead he bleats out random syllables, oh’s and ah’s that don’t make any sense, but hopefully serve the purpose of relaying the urgency of his need. As if Steve can read his mind, his hands clamp down around Bucky’s hips, keeping him firmly planted against the wall. 

The pace he’s using quickens minutely and with it, Bucky’s heartbeat. He would swear his heart is going to beat right out of his chest, it’s so loud, so pounding. He chances a look down again and watches Steve’s lips slide over his cock, taking him deep and pulling off rhythmically, wet and glistening. Those lips, those fucking lips…it’s unbelievable what he can do with those lips. His mouth curls around the side of Bucky’s cock and drags along the length of it, torture and reward all in one, before he swallows him down again, taking him all the way to the back of his throat. His fingers drop down and play with Bucky’s balls while he sucks, lightly rubbing and stroking. 

The combination is so erotic, Bucky knows he won’t last much longer. Already electric shocks are simultaneously zinging up his spine and down to his toes. Steve seems to know how close to the edge Bucky is—he tightens his mouth and hollows his cheeks, sucking at Bucky’s cock like his life depends on it, and the moaning sounds that reverberate against Bucky’s shaft as they slip from Steve’s throat are what truly push him past the point of no return. 

“Oh, fuck…fuck, Steve, yes!” he cries out, slamming his head back against the wall again. 

His fingers tighten in Steve’s hair but don’t force any movement to his head. Steve’s got that well under control, sucking down the length of his cock over and over, faster, harder, till Bucky is about to scream out his pleasure. Steve’s tongue is _everywhere._ His cock, thick and hard, feels like molten lava is going to start flowing from it. Bucky’s eyes are squeezed shut, his body trembling when he calls out a warning to his partner. 

“Gonna come soon.”

Abruptly Steve pulls off and stands, so fast it makes Bucky’s head spin. He growls out a command, “Come all over me,” before mashing their mouths together again, and Bucky wouldn’t ever dream of disobeying him. Steve’s hand takes over where his mouth left off. His thumb rubs over the tip first, using Bucky’s own pre-cum to slick him up a little, before his palm and fingers close around him and squeeze.

As they kiss, Steve still crowds him up against the wall, but Bucky has enough room to get his hands on Steve’s chest. His skin is hot like Bucky’s, smooth and soft but firm, too, covering such a thick mass of muscle. He explores, mapping out those gigantic pecs with the pads of his fingers, smoothing his hands down over Steve’s deltoids and biceps—Jesus, they’re like _pythons_ , for crying out loud—before returning to his chest and finding his pert nipples to rub over with his fingertips.

Steve’s skin is sensitive, too, judging by the whine that originates from his chest, only to be swallowed up by Bucky as they still kiss. He pushes his tongue even deeper into Bucky’s mouth, kissing him savagely, hungrily. Bucky is just as desperate for it, just as frantic for skin to skin contact, mouth to mouth contact, ANY kind of contact he can get from this man.

The friction is rough where Steve’s hand strokes him but it’s also divine, driving him senseless with need. God, he’s gonna come so _hard,_ he can feel it already, Steve’s got him worked up into such a frenzy. Now that they’re both standing again and Steve doesn’t have him pinned to the wall, Bucky can rock his hips and push his cock into Steve’s hand, increasing the scintillating friction there. 

Steve shifts his head and lays a trail of wet kisses over Bucky’s jawline, down to one ear and then over his neck. Taking a few gasping breaths, it’s all Bucky can do to process all these new sensations at once. Steve’s teeth grazing the side of his neck at the same time he’s still jerking Bucky off? New definition of ecstasy. A couple more pumps of Bucky’s hips, and a wave of orgasmic pleasure crashes over him, sweeping him away. He comes and comes, his release seeming to never end, making a complete mess of Steve’s stomach.

Not that Steve seems to give a shit. He continues to stroke Bucky right through it, while his cock pulses in his hand. Every muscle Bucky has command of feels like it’s in spasm; it takes a minute but then he eventually can unwind them and relax. He moans loudly, in complete satisfaction, and has to have Steve’s mouth on his _right now,_ so he takes his face in his hands and pulls Steve back to him. The kiss is sloppy and wet and perfect, and when it’s over he launches himself off the wall, making Steve lurch backward as well. 

He walks the blond back toward the bed till he hits the low edge of it and has to sit down before he falls down. Bucky goes right with him, lifting one knee up on the bed and climbing on next to Steve, pushing him down onto his back. His clothes have _got_ to come off, so he yanks unceremoniously at Steve’s waistband.

“Take these off,” are his urgent words, and Steve helpfully bends his knees, plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips so that Bucky can get his PJ’s and underwear off his body. 

Or he _would_ have gotten his underwear off, if Steve was wearing any. Which he wasn’t. Once the sleep pants come down, his giant erection springs free in all its glory, and it is fucking _glorious_ , long and thick, with a short nestle of golden hair at the base. Did Steve have this planned out more in advance than when he caught sight of Bucky? 

“That must have been some shower you took,” he murmurs, surprised but oh so pleased with this revelation. He wants to get his lips around that cock immediately and let the girth fill his mouth, but Steve has other ideas. 

“Enough for a second wind,” he growls out, sitting up enough to grasp Bucky by both biceps and haul him up toward the top of the bed.

Bucky gets tossed up like a twig, landing with a soft whump on his side. Bucky is _not_ a twig. He’s big, and the fact that Steve can manhandle him like that makes his spent cock try to rise again and his breath feel like it gets punched from his chest.

He rolls to his back and Steve looms over him, bracing his arms on the bed on either side of him and leaning down to plant a slow kiss on his mouth. Pulling back, he whispers adamantly, “Don’t move,” and turns to the far side of the bed. Bucky can hear a drawer being pulled open and occupies his time by studying the ripple of muscle on Steve’s back as he reaches for something. His gaze drops down to his narrow waist, then to the two firm globes of his ass cheeks. 

God damn, what an ass Steve’s got. Despite being told not to move, Bucky can’t stop himself and rolls to his side so he can reach down and slide his hand over the swell of Steve’s ass. There’s hard muscle there, but with enough padding to make his cock take another jump, and make him wonder just how good it would feel to pound into that ass. Steve’s head turns partially in his direction when he feels Bucky’s hand move across his bare skin; there is a slow exhalation of air from him and a dangerous-sounding, “Buck,” before Steve turns back around to face him.

Bucky has time enough to notice he’s used something to clean off his stomach before Steve is on him again, rolling him to his back and assuming top position. His elbows are on the bed on either side of Bucky’s shoulders, legs off to one side; his weight presses down on Bucky’s chest, effectively trapping him there. 

“Thought I told you not to move,” he says with a wry smile, dipping his head to lick along the shell of one of Bucky’s ears.

“Maybe I can’t be trusted,” Bucky groans out as Steve’s teeth latch onto one lobe and bite down ever so gently. 

“Clearly,” Steve huffs out, and produces a bottle of lube in one hand, dangling it above Bucky’s eyes. “Now. What do you want me to do with this?”

Fuck, Bucky is getting aroused again already, but it’s not his own cock he’s interested in. It’s Steve’s monster erection he’d like to get up close and personal with. He can feel it, trapped against his hip, all wet at the tip and very much like something he’d enjoy getting inside him. Just the heft of it against the point of his hip makes his ass clench in anticipation. 

“Want you inside me,” he grunts.

That seems to be the answer his partner is hoping for, because Steve’s eyes light up as he shifts his weight to get between Bucky’s legs. Sliding both hands down Steve’s back and cupping his cheeks, Bucky gives him a squeeze and enjoys the way Steve’s weight presses down into him. Their chests touch but Steve is thoughtful enough not to crush him with his bulk, and Bucky realizes it’s because he’s holding himself up while he coats his own dick with lube. 

The bottle gets tossed to the side like yesterday’s news; Steve’s lips and nose ghost over Bucky’s throat before a kiss is placed over his Adam’s apple. Another follows in the hollow at the base of his throat and Steve continues moving down, delivering light, nipping kisses till he reaches the center of Bucky’s chest. He follows that up by rubbing his cock slowly up and down against Bucky’s half-hard dick, a slow, mesmerizing tease of cock on cock, of slick, mouth-watering friction. 

How Steve can stand it when he hasn’t come yet is beyond Bucky, but he’s grateful for it at any rate. Steve rocks against him with a low, rumbly moan that echoes in the quiet of the room. Bucky’s whispered, “Steve,” sounds harsh and needy in the silence. He needs to feel all of him; his hands move, fingertips gliding upward and out, splaying over Steve’s wide shoulder blades. Steve’s body undulates above him as he rocks his hips, pushing his rock-hard cock back and forth over Bucky’s. 

_Damn_ , it’s nothing short of electrifying. Bucky pulls his knees up and wraps his legs around his partner’s, digging his heels into the backs of his meaty thighs. Steve’s mouth finds its way back to his throat, sucking and licking at his pulse point. Steve’s breath is hot on his neck, but that’s hardly the only source of heat in the room. 

Bucky’s body is burning up, super-heated by desire. He can feel the telltale signs of a sweat starting to break out on his chest and back. His cock, helped along by the unfathomable pleasure of having another heavy length thrust up next to it, has progressed from half-mast to full on raging stiffy. He doesn’t want to come again first, though, he wants to come after Steve has, when he’s buried to the hilt inside him and emptying himself with Bucky’s name on his lips. When Steve has his head thrown back, eyes closed, cheeks flushed red in ecstasy. 

That’s when he wants to come. 

“Fuck, Steve, would you fuck me already?” he spits out impatiently, scrabbling to find purchase at the edges of his shoulder blades, pulling him closer, thrusting his hips up to meet Steve’s every time he gyrates against him. 

Steve smiles against his skin and bites playfully at his neck. “So pushy,” he murmurs, but pulls away and uses both hands to push Bucky’s knees up further into the air, exposing his entrance. “Hold this,” he says, gesturing at Bucky’s knee with his eyes and grabbing Bucky’s hand, only to put it on his knee. 

Gulping air, Bucky does as he’s told, holding one knee up toward his chest. As long as Steve’s gonna get down to business and start pounding into him soon, he’ll hold any fucking thing he wants. Steve’s got a grip on his other knee, pushing it up as well, and with his lubed up finger breaches Bucky slowly, working the digit in quickly and adding another as soon as he can, like he knows Bucky is short on time. 

Or maybe he’s the one short on time. Bucky watches his face as he penetrates him, and it’s erotic as hell. Blissed-out at first, then _determined_ , like he’s a man on a mission. Whether it’s a mission to produce a second orgasm for Bucky or a first for himself, Bucky doesn’t know, but Steve doesn’t waste a second before finding his prostate and stroking over it, eliciting a desperate whine from his lover. 

Bucky’s almost seeing stars behind his eyes already, and that’s not fucking fair. He needs Steve inside him _now_.

“Goddamnit, Steve, I want your _dick!_ Give it to me!” 

Steve breathes out shallowly, watching Bucky’s face just as intently as he strokes inside him with his fingertips. “Oh, I’m gonna fucking give it you, sugar, just you wait,” he promises, withdrawing his fingers just as efficiently as he inserted them. He lines himself up, and the fat head of his cock pushes obscenely against Bucky’s hole. 

“Ohhhhh, fuck yeah,” Bucky croons, hugging his knee to him with his one hand and clutching at Steve’s hand, where it pushes his second leg up. “Fuck me.”

Their eyes are locked onto one another’s as the blond leans in. Steve’s eyes are dark with arousal, his chest flushed a pretty pink in color. His free hand slides up over Bucky’s stomach to his chest and Bucky could swear he just heard him _purr_ in approval, his eyes flicking down and then back to Bucky’s. The pressure at his entrance increases until the head of Steve’s cock pushes past the barrier and he eases himself in, slowly but steadily, giving the brunet time to adjust.

They both expel air in a long gasp and Bucky can’t decide if he wants to moan, cry, or scream. Or all of the above. A broken sob is what comes out, deep and lusty, and Steve bends down over him to catch his lips in a quick kiss before he straightens back up a bit, grabs on to the top of his headboard and _slams_ himself home.

Multi-colored explosions go off across Bucky’s field of vision before his eyes tear up and blur. Steve’s cock hits that perfect spot and he keeps himself buried completely, grinding in small circles against Bucky’s ass in a perfect blend of nirvana-inducing pressure and movement. The headboard groans in protest as Steve braces himself against it, pulls almost all the way out and drives in full force with a loud groan of his own. 

“Buck,” he whimpers, head back so the long line of his neck is highlighted, “God, you feel so good.”

His strong arms are directly above Bucky’s head so he reaches up and grasps at his biceps, bulging from the way Steve pulls at the wooden frame of the bed. He keeps his knees pulled up against Steve’s sides as best he can, craving all that skin in his hands and against his legs. He strokes along those taut muscles, detects a light sheen of sweat on them and licks his lips, wishing he could taste him right now. 

Then that thought disappears from his head, because Steve starts thrusting in and out of him, rocking his hips and sheathing himself completely inside Bucky’s channel, only to pull out and drive back in again, a little harder each time. The _noises_ that get dragged from his lungs with each push, sweet Jesus, they’re almost enough to make Bucky come untouched. 

His cock is _screaming_ for a good stroking, squeezing or rubbing, _anything_ , but he’s determined he’s not giving in until Steve reaches his peak. Bucky’s legs, however, are hinting that they may start cramping up from the effort it takes to hold them up so high, so he locks his ankles around Steve’s lower back and then clenches his glutes.

This has exactly the effect he was going for, because Steve practically yells out his name and doubles down on his brutal strokes. He fucks into Bucky so hard the whole bed is shaking, and Steve’s bed is _massive_. Every grunt Steve makes, every rough shove of his cock deeper into Bucky’s body, filling him up more than he could have imagined, pushes Bucky closer and closer to orgasm, and, he suspects, Steve too. 

And there it is, the scene he was waiting for; Steve’s head is tossed back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open as more and more beautiful moans drop from his perfect lips. He rockets his pelvis forward one more time and then stays there, impaling Bucky in the best way possible. His muscles go completely rigid as his release comes and he pulses his hips, unloading everything he’s got into Bucky’s willing body. 

Letting his hands slip their way down Steve’s sides, Bucky tries his best to reach both cheeks of his delectable ass and squeeze, holding Steve to him as his body shakes its way through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Steve lets one hand drop from the abused headboard and finds Bucky’s insanely-hard cock, wrapping around it and giving it a firm tug. His thumb rubs over the wet head; it’s then and only then that Bucky lets himself completely go.

With a noise that could be a groan of need or a sigh of happiness or somewhere in between, he lets Steve stroke him into sweet oblivion, with his cock still embedded inside Bucky’s body. White ropes shoot out from his tortured cock, coating Bucky’s stomach and chest; Steve makes another cooing noise of approval and doesn’t stop pumping his hand over Bucky’s shaft until every last bit has been expelled, and his cock starts to soften. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he hums, and bends down over Bucky again to kiss him.

This time it’s slow and soft and lazy, his lips nibbling at Bucky’s lower lip. Bucky lets his wobbly legs fall back down to the bed as his partner slips from his body. Hugging Steve to him, despite the sticky mess all over his front side, Bucky feels totally satiated, totally spent, totally enraptured. 

“You think I’m beautiful?” he murmurs dreamily, and Steve smiles against his mouth.

“Of course I do. Even when you looked like you were going to start drooling.”

Bucky laughs at that. “Well, you _are_ pretty drool-worthy.”

“Um. Thank you?” Steve frames it as a question.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says firmly. “I love you,” he whispers and sees Steve’s smile in his eyes and his mouth.

“I love you, too.” 

After getting them both cleaned up with wipes from a trove in his bedside table drawer and shutting off the light next to his bed, Steve makes Bucky move only enough to allow the two of them to get under the covers and snuggle together. They say their goodnights and settle in. Steve’s warm body is next to his, Steve’s protective arm thrown over his chest. 

All Bucky can think is, hooray for fucking. And snuggling.


	13. Sentimental Boxers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have been best friends since college. Bucky is perfectly happy with this until they get involved in a home remodeling project, start spending more and more time together, and he realizes just how attracted to Steve he really is. When a new man pops up in Steve’s life, Bucky fears he’s too late. He supposes the mature thing to do would be to be happy for his friend during his new budding romance. But hey, endlessly pining for him in secret until you explode is almost the same thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely readers, for being patient with this. It means the world to me! We've reached the end for these two, but certainly not the end of my Stucky love, or proclivity for writing Stucky fic. Till next time!

Chapter 13

Steve and Bucky decide to wait until they see Clint together to tell him their news; Bucky’s family members were the first to find out, aside from Sam, of course. Their happiness for him and Steve both had been uplifting, and Bucky goes into the work day hoping for a similar reaction from another one of his best friends. 

Clint merely shakes his head, clasps his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair when Bucky tells him he and Steve are _together_ together. 

“Well, about fucking time. I thought you two were never gonna figure your shit out.”

Next to him, Sam’s and Steve’s jaws drop open, and Bucky consciously re-closes his own before responding. “What? You _knew?_ ”

The four of them are having lunch at the same café with the great panini, the same place where all this business started. Clint smiles, looking vaguely superior while doing so, and holds his hands up in the air, palms up. 

“Of course I knew. I just wondered why no one else ever picked up on it. Even Nat has no idea.”

Bucky turns to Steve, eyes narrowed. “Did you tell him?”

Steve’s head shakes side to side. “Nope.” At the same time, Sam makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand and snorts.

Insulted, Clint leans over the table and picks up his burger, using it to gesture at them with his hands. “You remember that conference we all went to about three years back, the one Bucky drove in separately to because his sister was in labor?” He waits until they all nod, then continues, pointing at Steve. “You, me and Sam all got done with our panels first, but instead of driving back with us, you waited an extra two hours just to drive back with Bucky.”

He sits back in a self-satisfied way, like he totally just proved his point, and takes a huge bite of burger. But Bucky remembers that conference, and that drive. His eyes revert to Steve’s again. 

“You told me that was because Sam is a shitty driver and you almost died on the way there.”

Clint lets out a bark of laughter through his chewing at the same time Sam shouts out a defensive-sounding, “Hey!”

Steve pauses, then seems to give in. “I lied,” he admits, eyes trained on Bucky.

Sam clears his throat. “Thank you very much. I’m an _excellent_ driver.”

“Bullshit,” Clint declares, at the same time Steve says, “No, you really _are_ a shitty driver.” 

“But that’s not why you waited.” Clint’s hazel eyes cut to the man in question. “Is it.”

Again, Steve’s head shakes. “Sorry, Sam.” He glances at his goateed friend, then back at the other dark-haired man at the table, sans facial hair. “I made that part up just because I wanted to ride back with you.”

Sam grumbles about his character being maligned, but a warm feeling infuses Bucky’s chest and he gazes lovingly across the table at his new boyfriend. All that time, and he never suspected…

Clint snaps his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Bucky!” he calls out, trying to get Bucky to stop making googly eyes at Steve. “Remember re-shingling Steve’s roof several years ago?”

Bucky nods. Does he ever. It was hot as fuck and Steve’s roof was black. The four of them had sweated their asses off. “Yeah I remember. You almost passed out and fell off the roof.”

“Yeah, well when I wasn’t busy passing out I noticed was Steve staring at your ass the entire time you were nailing in shingles.”

There is a gasp from Steve, who apparently didn’t know his cover had been blown, and a gasp from Bucky, who apparently had been blind when it came to his best friend. Clint comes up with three more examples of Steve going out of his way to be around Bucky, all of them confirmed by Steve himself, and Bucky’s head starts to spin a bit. Steve had been giving him subtle hints for _years_ , and Bucky had been clueless. _Clint_ had figured it out before him, for chrissakes. 

Steve bumps his foot under the table and asks a silent question with his eyes. _You okay?_ Bucky nods, enough for Steve to see but not their other companions, and smiles reassuringly at him as Clint launches into a lengthy explanation of how he also predicted the last stock market crash before it happened.

\--

Three weeks later, big things are happening. The kitchen floor at Steve’s house is finished. They got all the cabinets hung and set in place, after diving head first into the exciting world of shims (courtesy of a YouTube tutorial), and the quartz countertop was just installed. New stainless steel appliances have arrived, and it all looks terrific. Bucky agrees wholeheartedly with the color palette Steve has chosen. 

The dark grey floor tile and lighter grey base cabinets are balanced out by the white upper cabinets. Steve’s decision to not paint the window and door trim and instead leave the natural wood tones helps warm up the space, as does the metal and wood light fixture he picked out to go over the dining table, and the wood accent containers he’s got on the countertop to hold small items. All they have to do is finish up the white subway tile backsplash, and the remodel will finally be complete. 

It’s on a Saturday, what is to be their last day of tiling, when Steve presents him with a box wrapped up with a long, red ribbon.

“What’s this?” Bucky asks in surprise when Steve presses it into his hands, with a sweet kiss on the lips to accompany it. 

“It’s for you. Part of a thank-you for all the help you’ve given me.” Steve smiles mischievously. “Open it.”

Sitting down on the couch, Bucky tugs the silky ribbon loose and lets it fall from the box, then pulls the lid off and peers inside. A slow smile spreads across his face and a chuckle escapes before he brings his eyes back to his boyfriend, who has plopped down next to him, pressing the side of his jean-clad knee into Bucky’s. 

“Do you like them?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods. 

“I love them.” He holds up a pair of boxer briefs, white with tiny red hearts imprinted all over them. Underneath that pair, nestled in a bed of white tissue paper lay two others, one with pink hearts and one with darker, cranberry-colored hearts. 

“I thought these might become sentimental to you for real,” Steve ribs him, eyes twinkling. He stands up and takes the box from Bucky’s lap. “Now come try them on.”

He doesn’t wait and is moving already when Bucky looks up at him in mock protest. “What? I have to wash them before I wear them!”

Turning around for the briefest of moments, Steve baits him. “The only reason I want you to put them on is so I can rip them off of you.” He then continues on his way to the bedroom.

Bucky springs off the couch with boxers in hand and follows. Hopefully the other part of his thank-you takes place in Steve’s bed. Or on Steve's floor. He's not picky. When he turns into the bedroom Steve is already seated on the bed. He motions to the bathroom with a toss of his blond head. 

“Don’t make me wait long.” 

Scampering past him, Bucky shuts the bathroom door behind himself and gleefully strips, having absolutely no intention of making Steve wait for anything. Already the idea of being looked up and down when he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs has him half-hard. Leaving his clothes and shoes strewn all over the bathroom floor, he flings open the door and makes his entrance, padding into the room barefoot, enjoying the small but noticeable intake of air from his lover.

Steve’s eyes drink him in for what seems like forever. Bucky comes to a halt just in front of him; Steve had been lounging back on the bed but now scoots up to the edge and snags him around the waist, pulling him in even closer, in between his own legs. He looks up at Bucky, fluttering those impossibly long eye lashes, and his pupils widen with arousal. The skin of his hands is warm at the small of Bucky’s back and Bucky reaches out to grip his broad shoulders, now bare. Steve had thoughtfully removed his shirt for him so he can revel in those strong, solid muscles, rippling under his fingertips as Steve shifts his position. 

“You look amazing,” he breathes, and his hands dip down, palms sliding suggestively over the cheeks of Bucky’s ass. “Feel pretty amazing, too.”

He leans in and kisses Bucky’s stomach, a slow and seductive smooch, just above the waistband of his new boxers. 

Bucky slides his hands up into the hair at the back of Steve’s pretty head. “You’re not so bad yourself.” 

Steve’s mouth glides over his skin as he presses more nipping kisses all over Bucky’s abdomen. Heat pools in Bucky’s groin as he watches Steve’s mouth work him over. Those _lips_. Steve has such perfect cock-sucking lips. His fingers slide down lower, creeping under the edges of the heart-covered boxer briefs and inside, so he can cup Bucky’s derriere directly, without that pesky fabric getting in the way. His grip is firm, pulling the object of his desire even closer to him. 

“You know what I was thinking?” he murmurs in between kisses. 

“What?” Bucky responds dreamily, lost in the feel of those velvety lips on his skin. 

“You should just go around like this all the time.” One of Steve’s hands drifts around to the front of his leg and inward, thumb rubbing over the inner portion of his thigh. “You don’t really need clothes.” Bucky has a hard time focusing on Steve’s words, what with one hand still gripping his ass and the other caressing his inner thigh, but he does his best and wheezes softly in laughter. 

“The guys at work might have something to say about that.”

Steve’s head dips, but his eyes remain laser-focused on Bucky’s as he noses along the outline of the hardened cock still being corralled behind those boxers. “Maybe we should explore the possibility of working from home,” he banters.

Bucky’s cock is ramrod straight and pulsing like mad; he wants to be engulfed in the heat of Steve’s mouth, like, _yesterday._ _Fuck_ , that sexy mouth. Those skilled _hands_. Steve’s fingers clutch at him, sliding in between his cheeks, teasing around his hole. Kisses are laid along the length of Bucky’s cock, right up to the tip. 

Bucky lets out the air he didn’t know he’d been holding in, a loud whoosh signaling both lust and anticipation. “Steve,” he breathes. “I know what would give these sentimental value.”

“I think I know, too,” Steve whispers, dropping gracefully to his knees onto the floor. 

\--

Another month later sees the approach of Christmas, and a closeness that has developed between the two men that Bucky could never have predicted. He’s had boyfriends before, but none like Steve. They were already best friends, but being intimate as well had made him truly see what he’d been missing out on all these years. Every day that Steve says, “I love you,” is a treasure. Every day he gets to hug him awake and kiss him goodnight feels like the best day ever. 

So much so that Bucky already is thinking about the two of them moving in together. Part of him wonders if it’s too soon, but the other part doesn’t give a shit because he loves Steve and they already spend almost all their time together anyway. They know each other inside and out, love each other from top to bottom, and he can’t imagine life without Steve as his partner ever again.

He’d invite him to move in today…only thing is, when he thinks about it, it makes much more sense for him to move in with Steve, not the other way around. Steve’s house has more square footage, a much newer roof (that he himself helped install), a fireplace (which Steve never uses but Bucky covets), not to mention a killer-looking brand new kitchen. But how do you invite yourself to live with someone else? That doesn’t feel polite to him, so in his head he’s still working out how to solve that little dilemma. What he does know is that he’ll wait for Steve indefinitely, if that’s what it takes, till Steve is ready to mention it himself. 

On Christmas Eve, after wrapping yet another present Bucky couldn’t resist getting, even after telling himself he was done shopping (Instant Pot accessory pack because Steve _loves_ the pot Bucky got him), and after assuring his mother over the phone that he and Steve would be over Christmas day for dinner, Bucky looks around and whistles. Three seconds later, a tiny black and pink pig appears, ears perked up curiously.

Smiling, Bucky produces a baggie filled with Cheerios from his pocket, squats and shakes a few out into the palm of his hand. “Good boy, Pumbaa,” he croons as the piglet snorts them down with a happy squeal. “You’re being so good while mom and dad are gone.”

Natasha and Clint are visiting relatives again so Bucky had pretended to be put out and then happily agreed to be pressed into service. He hadn’t even told Steve yet, but knows he won’t mind having an extra guest. 

“Let’s go, buddy. Steve is waiting for us.”

He picks up his charge and heads next door, not even bothering to put on a coat. There’s about an inch of snow on the ground, enough to provide some ambience for the holidays, not enough to be a pain in the ass with travel. When he slides open the glass door and steps into his boyfriend’s space, the sound of Christmas music wafts softly toward him and makes him smile. Steve is a sap when it comes to holidays. 

The room feels warmer than usual but he doesn’t register this consciously right away, because Tiny is there to greet them; the big dog wags his tail and sniffs Pumbaa in interest, but doesn’t bark. Pumbaa, who has been exposed to dogs enough by now, isn’t fazed by this. He’s more eager to find the bag of Cheerios Bucky had shoved back into his pocket. 

As he sets Pumbaa down on the floor and kicks off his wet, snowy shoes, Bucky looks around but sees no sign of the home’s owner. When he calls out his name, he appears from the kitchen almost immediately. 

“Buck!” Steve strides forward, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and leans in for a kiss. “I didn’t hear you come in…” his eye is caught by movement and he looks down, spotting the errant pig in his living room. “Pumbaa!”

Bucky plants a kiss on his distracted lover’s mouth. “Hope you don’t mind extra company. I promise he’ll be good.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Steve berates him, then narrows his eyes and grins. “See? Pigs are great.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Bucky bluffs, “He’s alright,” knowing Steve will see through that easily. 

He does, and Bucky is rewarded with the rich sound of his laughter. “Come on in,” he says, taking Bucky’s hand and pulling him toward the fireplace in the corner. “I wanna show you something.”

That’s when Bucky gasps out loud and stops in his tracks. There’s a _fire_ going in the fireplace. A real honest to goodness wood fire! 

“Steve!” he blurts out. “You started a fire!”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles and tosses the dish towel down on an end table dismissively, like he has a fire going every day. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” 

Bucky takes a few steps closer and looks at the fireplace, curiosity piqued. The fire is small and there doesn’t seem to be anything unusual about it, so his gaze is drawn upward to the mantel. Three red, fuzzy stockings hang from it—one for Steve, one for Bucky, and one for Tiny. Their presence itself is no surprise, since they’ve been up for a couple of weeks. 

What is a surprise is when Steve reaches up and pokes at the stocking with Bucky’s name on it. It used to be empty, but jingles a bit when Steve touches it, swinging on its hook. Steve looks meaningfully at Bucky, eyebrows raised in expectation, so Bucky reaches in and feels around at the bottom. His fingers touch cold metal and close around it. _Keys._

Retracting his arm, he opens his fist and looks at his palm. Two keys on a ring. Presumably, keys to Steve’s house. 

“Aww, thanks baby!” Bucky kisses Steve’s cheek. “You leave your door unlocked all the time anyway, though. Re-thinking your home security?” He jangles the keys, holding the ring between his thumb and index finger, and Steve catches his hand with his own, beaming at him indulgently.

“No,” he states gently. “That’s not why I’m giving them to you.” He takes Bucky’s other hand, holding both and pulling them to his chest. “I thought you might need them to get in when I’m not here.”

The tenderness of his mannerisms leaves Bucky feeling cherished, but he still doesn’t put two and two together at first. Steve’s adoring blue eyes bore into his; it’s a little bit mesmerizing the way the light flickering from the fire reflects off of them. They need to have fires going more often. His cheeks are rosy, whether from the heat or some other reason, Bucky doesn’t stop to consider. 

“But, if you’re not here, why would I need to get in?” he asks, truly flummoxed.

“You might need to get in…if you lived here.” Steve looks…hopeful, and that’s when Bucky finally gets it.

“Steve!” The word comes out sounding half-choked as a wave of emotion hits him. Love, eagerness, excitement, all ball up in his gut and explode outward. 

“Move in with me.” Steve’s face has lighted up upon seeing Bucky’s reaction to his words. “I want us to be together all the time,” he declares, as if he has to talk Bucky into this. 

Clutching the keys in one hand, Bucky slides both up and around Steve’s neck to embrace him. He presses himself against that warm body and turns his head, nuzzling his neck and kissing the spot under his ear that he loves. 

“Of course I’ll move in with you.”

“Really?” Steve squeaks excitedly and looks at him, head tilting. “I mean, if you’d rather stay in your place we can talk about it…”

He trails off when Bucky shakes his head. “No. Let’s live here.”

Steve repeats him in a breathy voice. “Let’s live here.” He smiles. “I like the way that sounds.”

“I like the way this feels,” Bucky responds, snuggling deeper into Steve’s arms as they wrap around his back and hold him tightly. The arms that will hold him for the rest of his life. “I like all of this stuff.”

Steve kisses his cheek, his forehead, and finally his mouth, looking at him with all the emotion Bucky feels in his heart. “What kind of stuff?” he teases merrily, and Bucky grins in remembrance.

“Oh, I dunno.” He slides his hands further around Steve’s slender little waist, overlapping his arms around him. He returns Steve’s kiss and then shrugs in mock uncertainty. “Stuff like love.”


End file.
